


These Old Roads

by The Jingo (The_King_in_White)



Series: The Roads Go Ever On and On [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse of Khuzdul, Angst, Asshole Thranduil, Awesome Galadriel, F/M, Family Feels, Groundhog Day, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), Overprotective Thorin, Suicide, Thorin Feels, Thorin Has No Sense Of Direction, Thorin-centric, Time Travel, Uncle Thorin, Undecided Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-09
Updated: 2015-04-16
Packaged: 2018-03-22 01:02:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 27,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3709237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_King_in_White/pseuds/The%20Jingo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin Oakenshield follows his sister-sons into death, bitterly cursing the mistakes of his long life. Then he wakes up, and he is young again (and again, and again) as the desolation of a dragon comes. "Am I cursed?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

* * *

_"Farewell good thief – I go now to the Halls of Waiting to sit beside my fathers until the world is renewed. Since I leave now all gold and silver and go to where it is of little worth, I wish to part in friendship from you, and take back my words at the Gate." - Thorin Oakenshield_

* * *

The stone was grey, sharp-cut and engraved with the hard lines and angles of dwarrow decoration. A pyramid here, a square there, solid shapes bordering about a great many pointed star.

His eyes were grey, shimmering silver in the light of torches beneath the stone. Glazed with shock and befuddlement, shuttering with slow blinks and staring blankly at the fine dwarven artwork as if it simply did not exist.

"Am I in Hell?" Thorin wondered aloud with a shaky breath. Because where else could the dead King be but beyond the Doors of Night in some realm of torment if his first sight of the afterlife was the ceiling of his childhood room in Erebor?

A pounding fist on wood rung through the still air of Thorin's chambers.

Stirring sluggishly from his tangled and sweaty sheets, Thorin rose from his bed and padded across the room and threw the double doors open.

A dwarven guard stood on the other side, staring blankly at the Prince of Erebor from under ginger brows.

Thorin stared back.

"My Lord?" the soldier ventured, shuffling in the ornate plating and gold embossed mail of the Royal Guard. "My Lord – well..."

A slow blink. "Yes?"

"You're... in a state of undress, My Lord. Pardon me for saying so."

Casting a slow silver gaze down at his naked flesh, Thorin shrugged "Ah.". Then shivered as a draft blew in from an overhead ventilation shaft.

Averting dark eyes, the guard coughed "Shall I leave you to dress, My Lord?"

"Yes." Thorin agreed blankly to the prompt. Turning about the dwarf prince flung the doors shut behind him.

What a strange hell.

Clad in silvered mail and indigo cloth with a steel blade of the finest dwarven make at his side, Thorin Oakenshield stepped through the halls of his childhood home.

Each turn and corridor brought another familiar sight with all the bitter sting of childhood recollection.

The secret passage to the kitchens that he and Frerin had crept down many a night to rob scones and other sweets from the baking trays. And the cook – sweet, fat Bambur, grinning at the young Princes with a twinkle in his eye and all the good nature of the sons (Oh Bofur, oh dear Bombur) he fathered on the slopes of Ered Luin.

Shimmering shallow pools of water, laid over silver and black stone in a beautiful tribute to the Mirrormere where Dis had played naked and squealing as a child. Thorin remembered burning red with embarrassment as the passerby dwarves either laughed at the naked imp or huffed in shock.

One of the many great libraries scattered throughout the Mountain where Balin and his father Fundin had tutored the young Thorin about the languages and histories of Middle Earth. Filled with tomes written in a dozen learned and dead tongues that recalled lore forgotten by many.

The great echoing chambers that spanned over upward into the shadow of the mountain where the merchants and officials from Erebor and Dale would meet monthly to haggle prices, regulations, politics, parties, and other topics vitally important to the running of a Kingdom and vitally unimportant to starving exiles wandering the wilderness.

Here too were the great gates of the Kingdom of Erebor. Built strong from stone and steel to ward out any fool invader desperate enough to try and assault the dwaven realm and steal the riches within.

It was too much.

Throwing back his head in a booming maniacal laugh that echoed about the cavern and drew odd glances from passing men and dwarves and a concerned look from his accompanying guard, Thorin laughed.

And Thorin wept. Heaving choking sobs at the unfairness of this afterlife he had been consigned to. Doomed to wander the halls of his Homeland in bitter regret. Drinking in the sights of a burnt nation restored to all the glory of his childhood and knowing that all the might of Erebor amounted to little in the end.

Thorin was still laughing and sobbing when the gates burst in with a furious explosion, dragonfire licking about and burning screaming citizens and children as they fled from the greed and violence of a monster.

He stopped laughing when great rocks sent flying by the writhing worm flew through the air to crush his skull.

* * *

Thorin blinked up at the ceiling in a daze, drinking in the sharp carvings with a desperate attention to detail.

"What?" the dwarf Prince muttered, rolling from the bed and tumbling to the smooth hewn stones. "What?" breathed again, as Thorin stared between the gaps of his splayed hands at the grey floor.

He... died again? Was this to be his hell? Dying over and over in Erebor as the dragon attacked?

The dragon.

Smaug.

A low growl burnt through Thorin's throat, fury roaring in every vein as he unconciously began to claw at the stone with a more and more violent curl. Blood cracked and broke around his nails as Thorin curved his spine like a cat, every vertebrae thrown into stark relief through the murderous tension in every muscle.

Mahal be cursed if that was to be his fate. And Illuvatar be damned if he would ever merely lie down and accept such a torment.

A rumbling thump echoed through the chamber again as The Guard hammered an impatient fist into the wood.

"What!?" Thorin howled, a torturous scream tearing from his throat.

Silence greeted him in reply, and with another growl Thorin yanked on his trousers and mail and threw the door open.

Pale faced and stammering, the Royal Guard failed to grunt out a reply before Thorin slammed the door shut with a crash.

Only to open it a short minute later clad in mail with a naked blade clenched in a white-knuckled fist.

Misinterpreting the pure murder written in the Prince's face, the soldier desperately threw himself to the side.

Thorin ignored the shaking dwarf as he stalked down the corridors of Erebor with all the lethal grace of a predator.

The guard caught up with him just short of the gates, jumping in surprise when Thorin raised the glittering steel sword over his head and screamed out with all the breath in his lungs "Dragon!"

Shrieks greeted his proclaimation as men and even a few women rushed about in a confused frenzy, scooping up wandering children and tossing fearful glances at the Prince.

Minutes trickled past, Thorin keeping a grim eye on the gates and waiting. Waiting for the people to flee. Waiting for the guard to assemble. Waiting for Black Arrows to be gathered.

"What are you waiting for?" he finally shouted at the huddled mass of confused citizenry. "Flee! Flee for your lives! Summon the guard!"

"He's gone mad." the red-haired soldier grunted behind him, motioning frantically at one of his befuddled comrades.

"But not deaf!"Thorin roared, pointing a furious blade at the naysayer who had vocalized the creeping doubts and worries of the people.

Jumping back from the swinging blade, the guard drew his shield from his back and barked out "Someone find the King!" before closing with Thorin in a clash of ringing steel.

Hesitantly joining their comrade, other members and common soldiers encircled the maddened Prince in a ring of curved shields and held against Thorin's increasingly desperate blows.

"Thorin!" broke over the fury. The pressing guards drew back as a regal black haired dwarf pushed past them, carefully drinking in the Prince's appearance through narrow silver eyes.

"Khagam." Thorin greeted with heartbreak in his eyes and sorrow in his mouth. Drinking in the scattered silver strands amoung the black hair. The gold trimmed violet robes and expertly crafted mail. The high brow and long nose and chin exactly like his own.

And Thrain, son of Thror drew back, eyes widening at the naked grief he read in his son's face. Reaching a trembling hand towards Thorin, Thrain murmured "Oh my son, what has happened?"

Then the world exploded, stone flinging through the air and a screech of flames sending the dwarven people scrambling for their lives.

And a father reaching out for his broken son before the flames of Smaug the Terrible consumed them both in a crackle of red hot agony.

* * *

This time Thorin threw himself from the sheets, pulling on his clothes in such a rush that he ended up tearing the trousers and having to waste precious time searching for a second pair.

A single knock rang through the air and Thorin was pushing out, shoving his confused red-haired guard to the side so violently the dwarf tumbled to the floor.

Stone pounded beneath the Prince's feet as he delved deeper and deeper into Erebor, finally heaving his body into the doors of the armory and crashing through in a heap of limbs.

Thorin gained his feet in a scramble and began to tear the room apart. Swords and spears and shields clattered in a broken symphony as the Prince searched with an increasing desperation through shining racks and dusty chest until at last he struck ebony gold.

Trembling hands scooped up dust covered black arrows, clutching the precious missiles to his chest as Thorin stumbed from the room.

His returning to the surface was slower going, laden with the precious dark steel arrows.

Eventually Thorin shoved past curious guards ignored their odd glances as he ascended the last staircase and crowned the gates of Erebor.

"What in the name of Mahal are you doing, laddie?" Balin stared at him, shielding dark eyes with a palm over his face.

"Saving your life, old friend." Thorin muttered, picking through the heap of black arrows and tossing aside the chipped and bent.

A warm, hot wind blew over the mountain with the force of a hurricane, and Balin ducked under a snapped banner. "What is it?"

"Dragon." Thorin grunted, pulling up a dark iron shaft and slotting it into one of the few windlances that dotted the Gates of Erebor.

Bushy grey brows rose in surprise and fear as the older dwarf cried out "Dragon!"

A flurry of stomping boots greeted his proclamation, shouting orders and questions that Balin proceeded to ignore as he bent down to swipe up a Black Arrow and run along the wall to shove it into another windlance.

Thorin gripped the curved metal prongs of the Dwarven catapult with white knuckles and waited.

A breath later he came. Dark and so red and shimmering crimson under the sunlight as the winged reptile breathed out a spout of flame.

Dale began to scream and burn and die, and still Thorin waited as Smaug lashed out with flame and tail and wing and claw and killed a thousand men. Waited as the fire drake laughed aloud in his cruel and terrible voice. Waited until the dragon whirled away from his wanton destruction to face the prize he had sought.

Erebor.

Thorin fired, releasing the black arrow in a whistle of wind over metal to clang off the durable scales of the dragon.

Without missing a beat, the dwarf Prince bent low and scooped another projectile up. Fittting it through the catapult and firing it. And another and another, until his fingers bled because of the snapping parts of the Windlance.

Kept firing his desperate arrows to bounce off again and again, missing the mark as Smaug drew closer and breathed.

And Thorin was burning. Burning, burning, and pain.

* * *

His trousers are around his ankles before he could even begin to think – to swallow past the pounding in his temples and throw on mail.

Leaping through the door in a flash of blue and silver, Thorin left behind a befuddled guard with his fist in the air.

Thorin is vaguely aware of the shocked cries that result when he elbows past the throng of merchant traveling to and from the city of Dale, but the dwarf prince is so far beyond caring in the moment that he merely ignores the demands for basic respect.

The only thing that matters is gaining the top of the Gates, and then striding back and forth across the parapets with naked steel in his hand and grim eyes on the sky.

Balin joins him when the whispers of concerned watchmen relay to him the strange weather – such a hot, dry wind! - and the strange prince – so tense and pacing!

"Thorin?" rises up from the throat of the concerned older dwarf. Dark eyes under dark brows watch the royal with undisguised regard. "Is something the matter?"

Snapping fills the air as the wind suddenly gusts, sending the banners into a flurry. Pines rustle and creak.

Thorin's grip tightens around the hilt of his blade.

Growling out darkly "The dragon comes," Thorin continues to peer at the corners of the horizon. Waiting for the telltale flash of blood-red scales. He is only vaguely aware of Balin's rushing and shouting, the march of boots and screamed orders as Erebor comes alive and aware to the threat in a way it never had been.

Erebor is more ready for Smaug's coming than in all Thorin's lives.

It is not enough.

Red flashes, and Thorin is grasping Balin by the back of the shorter dwarf's coat and dragging him behind a pillar.

Struggling against the choking hold of the Prince for long moments, the son of Fundin is just able to throw off the thick arm with rage and charge out into the open as Smaug bears against the gate. Flame lances through the air, roasting the dwarf in a furnace of pain along with his comrades.

Thorin merely closes his eyes to the screams and stench of burning flesh.

Again Smaug draws in a great heave, blasting out an inferno and roasting the stone until much of it glows cherry red through the smoke and ash.

A great thump and creak rolls through the wall beneath his feet, and then Thorin runs.

The flesh of his feet burn despite the protection of his iron boots as he charges across the top of the gate, and the flesh of his hand sizzles and bakes when he reaches out to heave himself up and over the precipice.

Wind whistles through his ears as Thorin drops from the sky, landing on red scales with a great whump of force.

Smaug goes wild, thrashing about in great spasms and throwing his long sinious body through loops and rolls in an attempt to dislodge the dwarf prince clinging to his horns.

Nausea roiled through Thorin as the world whirled by, flashing about in a flash of colours and sound. Smaug bucks between his knees, once – twice – thrice, and then the prince wraps hands around the hilt of his blade and stabs down.

An unholy screech fills the air as the dragon wriggles in death throes, snapping back and finally dislodging the prince.

Thorin flies through the air, wind tearing at the folds of his clothes and filling his ears. Flies across and crashes into a flame-wreathed spire.

Bones snap under the force of the collision, giving way to the stone before Thorin falls further. Falls straight down and crashes into the cobblestones of Dale with another cracking of bone.

Filling the spaces of his lungs is blood that stains red against the fine silver craft of his mail. Darkens his carefully sewn blue coat black. Spills bright and crimson across the stones.

Thorin is aware of a human child leaning down over him, face pale and shaking and crying for his mother as he dies.

* * *

If he cannot attack from above, then he will assault from below.

It is not death that Thorin fears (since he has already died many times) as he lines up with the soldiers of the Kingdom as the call to arms sounds out. But rather the despairing persistence of whatever void he was living in that consigned him to struggle again and again against the calamity that destroyed the livelihood and homes of thousands.

Smoke fills his lungs, stinking of burnt flesh and the raw scent of a dragon as Smaug roars in the distance. Black shadows flash around the wall, sunlight flickering in and out of his sight before the Gates groan.

Oak and steel bend under the blows, contorting further and further out of shape before finally giving in with a great clatter.

Stone flies through the air as the greedy dragon hammers away at the opening, tearing through the defences of the Kingdom with abandon and selfish longing for the dwarves' treasure.

Thorin steps forward, ignoring the shouts of his kith and kin as he takes steel in his hand and runs. Feet pounding across the ground just to throw himself down when Smaug finally slithers forth.

Casting an amused glance down at the prince, Smaug ignores the dwarf in his hast for gold and silver and star-filled gems. The dragon lurches forward, crawling straight over the fleeing dwarves and screaming men.

It is a fatal mistake when Thorin stabs up, shoving a hard point through the only open gap in the dragon's armour. For Thorin remembers a life before death, a gentle Hobbit, and a rumour and confirmation that the Black Arrow of Girion found its mark.

Smaug screams, fear worming through the lizard's brain as his great heart shudders in an attempt to beat. Vainly twitching around the blade that had rent it.

Scorching hot, black blood pours out from between the scales. Spraying into coldly glittering silver-grey eyes and blinding Thorin in a haze of boiling pain and darkness.

The dwarf prince blinks rapidly, attempting to clear his sight despite knowing in his heart that his eyes are forever ruined.

Thorin is still blinking when Smaug screeches his last and collapses, great red limbs curling underneath him and going limp. Crashing down to crush the dwarf that slew him in a bone-shattering pressure.

Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, dies drowning in his own blood (again).

* * *

Thorin - amazingly - survives the assault of the dragon.

It is the first time his strange unlife took him beyond the walls of Erebor.

A blank mind and despairing heart led him through the motions as Thorin found himself merely reduced to following the steps he'd taken the very first time he'd lived as a boy in Erebor.

Thorin rises from his bed when the guard knocks, allowing the man to lead him through his usual appointments (or what had been usual when he's actually been a boy and alive).

He visits Frerin, giving his younger brother a vague and teasing piece of advice to improve swordplay.

Dis crosses his path later, giggling and hugging her oldest brother's legs and begging for a trip to the kitchen for sweets. She is brushed off with a vague promise to sneak her cookies.

Gold glitters as Mad Thror wanders through it, rubbing greedy hands and drinking in the sights of the vast treasure horde with adoring eyes. And Thorin stands in the shadows watching, before finally turning away when the older dwarf runs fingers through a sea of shining coins.

And when a sweating soldier finally finds him to tell him about Balin's – dear Balin's! - concern with the hurricane from the North, Thorin allows himself to be led to the top of the Gates.

Moving through the motions, Thorin orders the older dwarf to call out the guard because of the threat of a dragon. And then screams with all that is in him through the caverns "Dragon!"

Leading the troops to defend the Gates is easy. Infinitely so when Thorin knows that Smaug will come through in wrath and flame and kill them all. Save Thorin, laying on his back to watch scales crawl by overhead as the Great Worm seeks the bounty of Thror.

Thorin stumbles from the Gates in a daze of pain and wreathed in smoke, to stand on the bridge ferrying fleeing dwarves and screaming for them to run.

Then Thranduil crests the rise over the valley of Dale, golden hair fluttering in the breeze and flanked by a thousand well armed Eldar in their golden plate.

It all crystallizes and becomes achingly clear.

And even though he knows it's a desperate plea, and even though he hates knowing it will not be answered. Thorin still reaches an arm to wave and scream "Help us!"

Just as before – that first innocent time when a young dwarf prince had faith in the world. - the King of the Greenwood turns away on his elk steed, leading his immortal kin back to the trees they called home.

And just as Before, Thorin felt the sour burn of betrayal and you-lack-all-honour in his stomach and knew that it was impossible for him to ever forgive or ever forget.

It is beneath the moon that Thorin realizes everything is different.

Locating Balin is easy, especially when the older dwarf had also been looking for him.

Balin shows himself accompanied by a pale-faced Frerin whose blue eyes seem too large for his face. But Dis is gone, and Thorin knows instinctively that there is some great wrong afoot.

"Where is my sister?" tears out of his hoarse throat, making Balin stiffen and Frerin look aside in distress.

"I am sorry laddie." Balin croaks back, blinking away tears. "She didn't make it."

Thorin feels blood roar in his ears, and he is unsure if it's him or his younger brother that keens like a wounded animal with grief.

He only remembers thank-you and you-did-all-you-could. And that in the murky recesses of his mind he recalls that in Thorin's first true life he had ordered Balin to find his family.

Blue winds alongside him as Thorin stumbles drunkenly along the banks of the River Running. Long Lake shines with pale light in the distance, and Thorin rants and raves and cries all alone under the stars.

His body is still moving under subconscious command when he draws the steel at his side with a quiet hiss and presses it to his neck.

Thorin's muscles clench and shiver and then move, and his throat is reduced to a red ruin.

Thorin dies gurgling in his own blood beneath the stars.

It is the first time he kills himself.

* * *

Choosing the manner of his own death is incredibly liberating Thorin realizes.

Sometimes he throws himself like a grotesque swan from the balconies, unable to simply deal with the failures of his constant attempts to save his country.

One time he dies with an elven arrow in his chest. He flees the mountain as soon as he wakes, desperately searching for Thranduil and abasing himself before the King of the Greenwood. Begging and pleading and grabbing to try to save his people.

Another time he perishes between the teeth of Smaug when he dives screaming and slashing into the beast's gullet. Thorin remembers it fondly because of the way Smaug choked and pleaded before they both died drowning in the dragon's black blood.

Sometimes he hunts his siblings and just holds them, pressing them into his chest and just being their brother as the world crashes down and they all perish under dragonfire and stone.

Only once does he slay Thror, slamming a knife through his grandfather's eye and screaming madly "You let them die! You let them die!" Thorin himself passes from that life with arrows and a sword in his back, and never sees the dragon.

Eventually Thorin bows down, and remembers. He proceeds through the dragon's attack like he had when he had truly been young and innocent.

He remembers to save Balin's life, and immediately order his old friend to find his siblings.

He remembers to lead his men in a failed last stand and lie beneath the stench of the dragon as the great worm slithers over him.

He remembers to push and drag crying men and women and children through the Gates and along the bridge and through Dale.

He remembers to scream for aid that he knows will never come.

And when the moon rises and Frerin is sitting hollow-eyed beside his father and Dis – sweet, golden Dis! - is sobbing into his jerkin and clutching at her brother when the world falls down around her, Thorin holds her to his chest and stares at the stars above.

Perhaps it is Mahal that tossed him in such a hell, or Illuvatar himself. Or even Morgoth – the Great Enemy – had somehow reached out and seized his soul and cursed him to such an existence.

Thorin breathes in around the chasm of his heart, and finally croaks out to whatever Power is listening.

"Am I cursed?"

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is meant as a blend of storyverse and movieverse, and as such I've had to look through all the dates (as well as events and blend them) and adjust for people's appearances. At the Fall of Erebor (TA 2770) the ages of those concerned was: Thorin (24), and Balin (7) were the only members of the Company at Erebor for sure when Smaug came. 
> 
> Which does not match up for Balin AT ALL already being a geezer when Smaug came. And dwarves live about 250 years. Smaug is killed in TA 2941 (170 years later), so Thorin and Balin would be old enough to look old (as they are described in the books). However, I'm a fan of Thorin's movie appearance, so I'll keep that by flying with that those in the direct descent from Durin have longer lifespans and age slower (keeping Thorin younger for longer). And I'll roll Balin's birth back so he's 80 when Smaug comes, which is enough of a gap for Dwalin to look younger significantly than his brother. Frerin is 19 when Smaug comes, and Dis is 10. I'll roll Frerin back to being 15 and Dis can be 6 because much family cuddles.
> 
> Dori, Ori, Nori, Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur have no recorded birthdates. So I'll divide them up as I will in post-Fall of pre-fall. Ori is in the films even younger than Fili and Kili, so he's out. Bofur looks young, so I'll cut him out. Dori is the oldest brother, so I'll throw him in. Nori is out because I'll put him halfway between is brother. Bifur is not even a Longbeard, so he's not even at Erebor even if I do decide to make him that old (even if he is Bofur's cousin). And Bombur doesn't appear that old.
> 
> Fili, Kili, Oin, Gloin, Dwalin were are born in Tolkien's record after the Fall of Erebor. Oin and Dwalin very shortly after, which explains why Dwalin is so loyal to Thorin in the film (if his first memory of Thorin is leading them and feeding them in the wilds).
> 
> Khagam – Father


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own The Hobbit, or any of Tolkien's works. Nor do I make profit writing stories about them.

* * *

_"The fire was red, it flaming spread..."_

* * *

Days after plodding on the road in filthy and tarnished crimson noble garb, Frerin dragged a hand across his tired eyes and swallowed back the urge to cry. The dwarf lad had always known in an abstract way that the world was an unfair place filled with numerous terrors. But no amount of lessons or lectures or books could prepare anyone for the desolation of a dragon.

Everything hurt. Low hunger curled in Frerin's gullet with every step, growing ever more insistent the longer the dark-haired dwarf tried to ignore it. Unfamiliar aches and pains had seeped into his muscles after long days of simply walking, and then sleeping on the hard ground. Even his mind seemed to ache between his ears, struggling to absorb the enormity of losing everything he'd ever known.

Tears were not a luxury Frerin Thrainul had access to. Even if the boy could easily see his own despair mirrored in the sobbing faces of the commoners pressing in behind him, or if Dis alternated between exhausted sleep and constant tears, the young dwarf could not afford to show weakness. 'In times of crisis, everyone depends on their lords. Be strong.' Thrain had whispered to him in the night.

Squinting gritty dark eyes over the distance as the overloaded town of Esgaroth vanished into the deep blue horizon of Long Lake, Frerin clenched his jaw. The men of Dale were in no less dire straits than the dwarves of Erebor.

Because of the nearness of their relatives, they had not fled far enough from the wrath of the dragon. The Laketown would burn beneath dragonfire, Frerin knew with a sense of trepidation. Somehow, at some time, it would blaze down into the dark lake.

Even if Smaug slept for a thousand years, and never roused his wrath against the living again, it did not diminish the sight of pure human misery Lake Town had become. Men clung to every spire, every timber, flooding every boat and crowding into every hut as they pled for salvation. Dark times had come, with darker ones to come.

Frerin turned back to stare at the tall indigo covered back of his suddenly taciturn brother. Thorin bore the same burden, with a determination that inspired the second son to offer their people the same.

Look Adad.

Look Nadad.

I am strong.

* * *

Nibbling on the last remains of a crust of dry bread, Dis watched her eldest brother sweep back into the night. Everyone and everything had changed, and even weeks later with the grass of Rhovanion between her toes and the River Running burbling merrily at their sides, Dis still wept in the night.

The blonde dwarf girl wondered if she would ever stop, or if she would cry until she died. Neither thought comforted Dis, because one meant she had forgotten the suffering of her family and people around her, where the other meant she would spend her days miserable.

'It is a hard road for Durin's Folk.' Thorin had murmured to her over the fire one night after they had passed by Men-i-Naugrim, hurrying around the entrance to a wood grown hostile with deep darkness over the long years.

Long fingers snarled through her hair as Dis swallowed down the last crumb. "It will be all right, natha mine. " The voice of her mother slipped into the bleeding cracks in the little girl's heart, soothing away for a time the hurt that came from a home in ruins.

Fris was the spitting image of her golden haired daughter. With tumbling blonde locks and laughing cerulean eyes, the wife of Erebor's crown prince had wrapped the court around her fingers. The dwarrowdam's beauty and gentle manner were well known, and from the moment of Dis' birth the young princess had been compared to her mother.

There was little laughter left in Fris' eyes any longer, save for when she could conjure up cheer and lift the hearts of Durin's dispossessed folk.

"It will be alright." Fri murmured against, stroking gentle hand's over her daughter's crown.

Who she was truly trying to convince, Fris, daughter of Freya, could not say.

* * *

"Will you send none to Nain's folk in the Iron Hills?"

The difference in Thorin was as that between night and day, Fundin decided as he watched Thrain's son pace back and forth within the tent that had been requisitioned for the use of the King. Before Smaug had come, the lad had been a merry sort. Proud, as was his right. Respectful to his elders, as was polite. Mindful, as was his duty. But also given to smiles and jests with his siblings and his friends.

This new Thorin was grim, and smiled not at all. Affection still shone in the wolf eyes Thror's line was famous for when the lad gazed upon friends and family. But there was a barely restrained wildness in Thorin, and the young dwarf prince treated his elders not as superiors but as barely equals. As if he were accustomed to giving all commands.

From the worried look on Balin's face as the father and son observed their distant royal kinsman, Fundin knew he was not the only one that had noticed.

"I have already sent away those that were willing to, and should have gone. The young, the old and infirm. But what the Iron Hills can spare is hardly enough to feed the host of our people. " Thrain knuckled his tattooed brow, sighing in tiredness. Neither Prince paid much attention to the King Under the Mountain.

Thror was weeping alone in his bed furs, fingers scrabbling over the paltry gold that had been salvaged while they had fled the mountain. Once the mightiest of dwarf lords, the King of Erebor was no longer even king of his own mind. The dragon sickness had struck deep into the old dwarf's bones, and neither Thrain nor Thorin wanted to stare too closely at what could become their own future.

"Fine." Thorin dropped the subject in a short bark, turning his thoughts back to well-hashed contentions. "Have you changed your mind as of yet regarding our relocation?"

"You know we have not, laddie." Fundin cut in, stroking his salt and pepper beard. "Dunland is a mean place for us to go. We are well aware that the existence we could eke out there would be mangy. But it is safe, and that is what our people need right now."

Temper flared dark and violent in Thorin as he turned away, seething inwardly over the wasted years his people had spent amongst those miserable hills.

"King Frealaf has been courteous enough to our diplomats." Fundin had continued. "And I have no doubt the Horse Lords would be gladder to have dwarves as neighbors than the Dunlendings."

"So long as we are safe, we are perfectly content with selling ourselves for the meanest copper, you mean?" Thorin exploded, before reigning in his temper and growling through gritted teeth "Ered Luin was once a great haven for our people, and it may be again."

"Belegost and Nogrod remain drowned." Fundin bit out testily, smoothing down his beard in a longstanding gesture that calmed him. "Unless you think to teach our folk to breathe beneath the Sea?"

"Enough." A tired voice groaned, drawing the attention of all in the tent to the bent figure of Thror. "If you have so much faith in these old Kingdoms, Thorin, then take yourself and some of our folk to find the truth of it." The gleam in the King's eye was sharp, old cunning and shrewd calculation breaking from the gold madness. "Take the old forest road, as I know you wish, you impatient boy. Do this swiftly, and return."

Face twisting into frantic fear, Thrain whirled about. "Father, that is my son! You cannot mean to send him away – after what has happened to our Kingdom!" Meaty fists clenched in worry as the Crown Prince stepped forward in entreaty. "He is just a child!"

Thror frowned, ice blue orbs seeking out his grandson's own wild pair. "No." The old King declared gruffly. "He is not." The sensibility fled then, and the King of Durin's Folk bent down to weep over his lost gold again.

A loud crack echoed through the air, and ignoring the stinging in his cheek, Thorin turned his face back towards his seething mother. To say that the dwarrowdam had taken his choice poorly was an understatement. Thrain was just as unimpressed, though his father was less apt to emotional outburst.

It was little more than an annoyance to Thorin, who had lived neigh two centuries and more than knew how to survive in perilous places. But these were his parents. His mother whom he remembered burying under a cairn of stones by the road on their travels and his father who had died mad and alone in Dol Guldur. So he would bear their contempt, if only to reassure himself that they were living once more.

( Though that was indeed, still in doubt. Thorin was entirely convinced he was living in some private hell. )

"Selfish, cruel boy!" Fris bit out, white beneath her pale beard. "You are needed here, with your brother and sister. Not haring off on some fool's errand!"

Reaching up, Thorin cupped his mother's angry face between his hands. Her flesh was warm beneath his fingertips, and that brought a thick lump to his throat that the prince had to swallow past to speak. "Amad, I do not do this to be cruel, or out of some sense of dwarfling adventure. I do this for our Folk, and their future."

Pressing his forehead to her's, Thorin shuttered his eyes. "Do not let us part in anger." He had more than enough angry partings in this world and the last, and it had taught him the future was uncertain. Thorin was tired of burying friends after hard words, or being buried himself with conflict lying unresolved.

Fris stood stiff and angry for a long, silent moment, before her fury bled away. Settling soft hands over her firstborn son's, the princess gave a rusty chuckle. "Oh my Thorin, when did you grow so old?"

"It was bound to happen, amad. Not all of us can remain ever young and beautiful as you." The jest was a weak one, but it brought a tremulous smile to the dwarrowdam's lips.

"Flatterer. Keep such honeyed words on your tongue and I may find myself a daughter-in-law sooner, rather than later."

Thorin's lips quirked. "I shall endeavor to do my best, for your sake." It was the first time he had smiled since he died.

* * *

The sun has passed away.

It was an errant thought that came into Thorin's mind as he stepped beneath the boughs of twisted trees and entered Mirkwood. With a company of fifty dwarves at his back, and the cracked stones of the ancient highway that had still spanned the once-Greenwood, the dwarf prince plunged into the forest.

The air tasted of shadows. Dark and saturated with the fell stench of the Necromancer's sorcery. It did not take long for the light to die by inches, leaving only the faint half-light and the breathing of his company in the eerie silence. Thorin loathed it even more than he had the first time he led a company through Mirkwood.

However, as much as Thorin hated Mirkwood – hated the shadows beneath the branches, and the stifling lack of wind, and the rustle of misshapen creatures just out of sight, he infinitely preferred it to time spent with his family. Even if there were poisonously coloured vines draping from the canopy and the slither of something in the underbrush, there was no Frerin here. No Thror. No Fris. No Thrain.

No Dis.

There was no possibility of waking in the night with a cold sweat, heaving from the memory of his brother's dead and sightless eyes beneath the sky at Azanulbizar, only to have his distressed living brother press against him. There was no Dis for Thorin to sneak guilty crumbs to, seeing her older face on his mother and fighting the urge to throw himself to his knees.

Fili. Kili. My boys. Dis, I failed them. I failed you.

I failed my people.

I failed.

Stones were a scarcity in Mirkwood, and saved Thorin the imagining of his mother's corpse peeking out from underneath them. Every time the prince could steel his heart long enough to help the dwarves of Erebor bury another of their kin beneath cairns on the roadside, he did. And every time he did, Thorin turned away at the end fighting the nausea that accompanied the familiar act. Every dwarrow was his father, dying alone and tortured in Dol Guldur after decades. Every dwarrowdam was his mother, bleeding beneath her skirts with black bruises around her throat after trying to scrap together coins working in a seedy bar.

Some things were forever unspeakable.

The long silences and graves in his eyes were unnerving, Thorin knew. He could see it in the way his soldiers flinched away from him when the nights came. He supposed he was fortunate that their grief ran together, and the men continued to follow him despite the edge of madness they were beginning to suspect in him. Fifty of Erebor's best and brightest whispered in the dark, passing on theories about their fifty-first. Sometimes they even misidentified whom they were speaking to, and Thorin smirked morbidly to hear their worries.

The Prince was mad with grief. Or mad with violence. His was a heart too hard, since he did not weep. His heart too soft, since he did not put the ghosts in the ground where they belong. He was leading them to doom, or salvation. Either way, they were Durin's Folk, and they would follow him to the end of all days.

Get it together, Oakenshield.

The spiders descended, and he died again, pulled to pieces screaming.

Thorin was stubborn. Some thought it his greatest of flaws – that he would attempt again and again regardless of the cost, until some unforeseen circumstance would change his mind. Others would call it his greatest strength, and that he was made to endure beyond suffering.

The dwarf prince himself was unsure. Days ran together, until they began to lose real meaning and a haze of weariness wore away the sharp edges. Deaths ran together, until waking up to his childhood ceiling grew old and even Smaug less a terror. Lives ran together, until he could tousle Frerin's hair without thinking of his corpse, and hug Dis without grieving her sons.

Being beaten into something both harder and softer was disconcerting. Thorin lost count of the times he died on the dwarf road. He rushed the company faster, and slower, and spiders consumed them. He took more soldiers, and orcs fell upon them. He took fewer men, and made it to sight of the western sun, only to be caught by wargs in the last stretch. He snuck away and journeyed alone the last time, to bleed his life and warmth away at behest of a wraith in black.

* * *

After that, he kept his peace for weeks. When Fundin suggested they journey to Dunland, Thrain agreed, and Thorin remained silent. When they passed Men-i-Naugrim, Thorin swallowed the urge to suggest they cut across the trees and make for a richer refuge. Blow by blow, death by death, life by life, he was being remade.

Iron was the greatest friend of the Khazad. Mithril the most beautiful, but treacherous in the deep. Gold the most lusty, but mad beneath the gleam. Iron was black, and hard, and strong, but brittle at the seams. Thorin was becoming something else in the forging.

Blue eyes woke, tired beneath the weight of untold lives but sharp, and gazed over hazy brown lands. Thorin blinked, and straightened. The shadow of Mirkwood fell away, and fire shone in the heart once more.

His was a truer steel.

Thrain led the dwarves of Erebor, save for the few times that Thror's mind was his own. But for all the Crown Prince was the Crown Prince, the King was still the King, and his word was still law. Madness or no madness. Experience taught Thorin the simplest and quickest way of getting permission for his continually failing expeditions was to bypass his father and approach his grandfather directly.

Thus Thorin Thrainul found himself standing stiff as a board, spine straight with fists tucked behind his back. In the heyday of Erebor Thorin would have approached his grandfather before the court in his best silks, freshly scrubbed and freshly braided, to present to the King his petition.

Wandering the wilderness with the survival of their people as they were however, propriety bowed to necessity, and Thorin came to Thror when the older dwarf's eyes were clear. Slipping in after his father and the royal council had departed for the night, and still clad in the dirt of the road, Thorin bowed and waited to be acknowledged.

"Thorin." Thror greeted, a shrewd light in the oft-witless King's mind. Before his spiral down into gold sickness Thror had been widely regarded as one of the greatest dwarf lords of the age. Courageous on the field of battle, cunning in negotiation, loyal in friendship and long in enmity. To recognize the implicit underhanded approach Thorin made took only a split second for the dwarf that had built Erebor from nothing but old ruins.

"Grandfather." Thorin replied lowly. He was not approaching Thror as a subject, but as his grandson and second-in-line. His petition was for the sake of Durin's Folk, and not for himself. "I beg your leave to depart with a small company across the Anduin."

Gears began to turn instantly in Thror's mind, suspicious of foolhardy ventures. "For what purpose?"

"It is known that there is little wealth for our people to be found among the hills of Dunland. Tin may feed our people, but there is little happiness to be found from it. It would simply be a meagre existence, begging for scraps in the villages of men, pawning the heirlooms of our people for bread. There are other caves to delve – old kingdoms that still offer hope."

The creak of Thror's bones as the old dwarf fisted his hands was shockingly loud in the quiet of the tent, making Thorin blink in surprise. "Khazad-dum is a dream Thorin. We are desperate, but not that desperate yet. I have little doubt Durin's Bane still stalks those halls."

"I would not have suggested it." Thorin reassured quickly, shoving down the sheer shock of Thror of all dwarves warning him about the dangers to be found in Moria. "I mean to travel along the East bank to the North, cross at the Old Ford and take the High Pass. Then press West until we reach Ered Luin. Belegost and Nogrod lay beneath the sea, but the Firebeards still keep halls there to this day."

Thinning his lips, Thror stared blankly into the distance as he weighed his grandson's proposal. It was a potentially dangerous journey to be sure, for an uncertain reward... but there was potential. And if the worst came to be, and Thorin was lost, his house would still continue.

The King tracked his gaze back to pin his grandson with an assessing stare. Mere months ago he would never have permitted such a thing. Thorin was too young, and yet untested. Two months after the Fall of Erebor with his people homeless and starving however, Thror found himself permitting things with he would not have before.

"Our pace will take us to the South Undeep by tomorrow evening. Discreetly gather yourself a company of thirty to take with you, and depart at first light two days hence. Tell none until it is time for you to leave." Thror lips twisted bitterly. The gold madness was strong, and this would likely be his last time to see his eldest grandson for nearly a year, if the journey went well. "I doubt I have to remind you not to tell your father."

Thrain would stop Thorin, if he could.

"As you will, grandfather."

* * *

The swelling over his cheekbone had yet to subside, and throbbed in time with every step. To say Thrain had been unimpressed with his son's secrecy would be an understatement. Angry cursing and a fist to Thorin's face however, had done much to improve the Crown Prince's temper.

The purplish bruise darkening his face made a pleasant companion for the reddened cheek Thorin endured after Fris' angry slap. It made his face such a pleasant sight, if the horrified look a painfully young Dori gave him the morning they set out was anything to guess by.

Thorin, Balin, and Dori were the only members of his Company that had been born before the Desolation of Smaug. A small part of the collection of warriors and friends that Thorin had come to rely on and trust his life with over the last year of his life. It felt painfully naked to not have Dwalin at his back, or Bombur turning sausages over the fire rather than some Ironfist he'd never met before. But to have a grey-haired Balin curled up next to him when they laid their bedrolls out, or to glimpse a red-haired Dori with a wisp of beard mingling with the others following him, eased part of that aching emptiness in Thorin's heart.

The Anduin ran thick and strong beside the trekking dwarves, winding its long way to the sea. It shone deep blue in the sunlight, and glimmered silver and dark beneath the moon, bubbling patiently past like a steadfast companion. It soothed Thorin's nerves when he stumbled back into and out of memory, waking from nightmares of dying and living in the night.

His days mingled together, bleeding away the stress that had built itself into every seam of his mind. Thorin found himself breathing in the clean air, with a thrum of life flowering faintly beneath the skin. Quiet songs of Elder Days sung lowly among the Khazad began to pull his own voice from his throat and ease the flown seemingly chiseled on his brow.

Balin was gladdened. One learnt swiftly to count their small blessings following the great devastations.

He should have expected something would happen soon to upset the quiet monotony of the jouney.

It did.

"Awake! Awake!"

With a hammering in his chest Thorin jolted from sleep, rolling to his feet and drawing his blade in a single smooth motion. Air hissed as the dwarves dozing around him burst into battle-readiness, dwarven wrought steel gleaming in the pale early dawn light. A long tense pause thrummed through the camp as they scanned the horizon for orc raiders or hunting wargs.

Low curses and angry grumbles began to fill the air when it was found to be clear of any sign of foes. Shoving his dwarven blade back in its sheath, Thorin ignored the building tumult turned a sour look towards Balin, who responded with a confused shrug.

"Shazara!" the prince roared, shoving a particularly noisy dwarrow. "Shazara!" Silence slowly descended back over the camp, and the commotion calmed enough for a red-haired dwarf to shove his way through to stand before Thorin.

"There's something I think you need to see, your highness."

Thinning his lips, Thorin followed the sentry. "What is it? Enemies"?

"Not quite."

The last of the milling dwarves shuffled out of the way, allowing Thorin to catch sight of what began all the early morning confusion.

A pile of grey-brown packs, neatly stacked in rows of five, with dark leather flasks set upon each. The material was finely woven, and looked newly made. They didn't appear sinister, but their strange and sudden appearance was absurdly eerie. If it was supposed to be some sort of trap, it was queer one.

Motioning with a thick finger at the sentry, Thorin grunted "Open one." The dwarf hurried to obey, checking a flask first. Water splattered over the ground, turning a small spot of it into mud.

"Just water."

"The packs as well."

Curious fingers quested inside the woven packs, pulling out small packages wrapped in leaves. The sentry wrinkled his nose at the greenery, but peeled it back to reveal a pale biscuit. The sight of it tickled the recesses of Thorin's memory, bringing to mind airy places and flowing falls.

Rivendell.

"Lembas bread." The dwarf prince identified with incredulity. Lembas, here?

"I should say this one's for you, laddie." Balin rumbled from nearby, shoving a satchel into his hands. The weave of it was instantly identifiable by mere touch as being of a higher quality than the others. And pinned to the flap was a slip of paper.

Thorin, son of Thrain. The envelope read in fine strokes, the runes bold and dark above a red wax seal. Flipping the envelope over to the back, Thorin felt his brows climbing in the first true and honest surprise since he'd become 'accustomed' to living and dying over and over.

Compliments of the Lady of the Golden Wood.

Raising suspicious eyes from the sealed envelope, Thorin raised over the wide Anduin to stare at the golden trees of Lothlorien waving merrily in the morning breeze.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary:
> 
> Adad – Khuzdul; Father.
> 
> Amad – Khuzdul; Mother.
> 
> Nadad – Khuzdul; Brother.
> 
> Khazad – Khuzdul; Dwarves.
> 
> Shazara – Khuzdul; Silence.
> 
> Belegost – Home of the Broadbeams in Ered Luin, drowned at the end of the First Age after the War of Wrath. (Sindarin; Mighty Fortress). Gabigathol in Khuzdul.
> 
> Nogrod – Home of the Firebeards in Ered Luin, drowned at the end of the First Age after the War of Wrath. (Sindarin; Hollowbold). Tumunzahar in Khuzdul.
> 
> Khazad-dum – Moria. The Dwarrowdelf.
> 
> Frealaf Hildeson – King of Rohan and nephew of Helm Hammerhand. Ascended after a war with the Dunlendings killed Helm's sons.
> 
> Currently Alive Company Members: Thorin, Balin, Dori.
> 
> Galadriel: So Thranduil is an asshat, what else is new? I realize that it's sensible for him to avoid tangling with the dragon. But that's not an excuse to refuse to send food/medicine. I think the elf lord is just taking the opportunity to enforce a grudge. But I can't imagine every elf everywhere is going to be that much of a prick. Elrond certainly takes a "Help everyone that's not an orc" sort of approach, and we know already Galadriel doesn't hold any kind of prejudice against dwarves. Otherwise Gimli never would have become Lockbearer. Just take it that in the canon timeline, the dwarves of Erebor never ventured near Lothlorien for her to send some supplies to, so they never had aid from her rather than racist!elves galore.
> 
> Dwarven Aging: I don't think they have extended puberty/prepubescence. I rather view them as just aging "normally" for the first twenty years, and then persisting through a long adulthood and senior years. Otherwise a thirty year old Thorin would be closer to ten years old when Erebor fell.
> 
> Balin's Age: I was going to say that him being 80 and old with young Fili/Kili at 80 could fly since "Durin's age slowly". But he's also a direct descendent of Durin. So let's just fly with him being I dunno, 50. And he just naturally has grey-black hair. I haven't actually mentioned it in the story yet as a number, and only described him as older and shorter than Thorin, and old enough to tutor him a bit, so I can work with that.
> 
> Kiliel: I don't really care for it. I dislike a lot of how Tauriel was used in the films – cheapening the BerenxLuthien romance, "Hands of the King are Hands of A Healer" reduced to Glowy Elvish Hocus Pocus, ect. – but she has potential as a character. If, and a VERY big if, those two end up together, it wouldn't be until near the very end of the fic. I just can't see them meeting up at any other time than the Quest, and again, I refuse to have "I could have anything down my trousers" as an acceptable pickup line.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own The Hobbit, or anything in the Middle Earth Legendarium. I make no profit writing about it either.

* * *

_"To Rivendell - where Elves yet dwell in glades beneath the misty fell..."_

* * *

Thorin ignored the low curses behind him as he led the pack of dwarves at his heels stomping over the Old Ford to the West Bank of the Anduin. The Great River ran thin and shallow so far to the North, with barely enough water at the ford to soak his toes. Idly, the dwarven prince considered when exactly Beorn would settle his farmstead so near and to the Northeast. A pang quivered in his gut at the realization that the skin-changer was likely not even born yet, like so many of his companions.

He told himself the queasiness was just indigestion caused by the damned elf bread.

Swiping the last crumb of lembas from his recently shorn beard, Thorin licked the scrap from the tip of a thick finger as he mused over the letter that seemed to be burning a hole beneath doublet. Galadriel hadn't written anything to him of particular worth or note. Common platitudes for the ruin of his folk and vague commiseration about their misery.

The queer and suspicious fact remained that it had been sent at all. None of the supplies appeared to be poisoned, for none of the soldiers under his command had fallen sick after Thorin had ordered them to swallow their reluctance and eat the damn waybread. Durin's Folk were not much more than beggars so early on, even if Thorin personally would strive and sweat to remedy it, and it did little to pretend they were otherwise.

What was the elf witch's motive? To mock their poverty? To satisfy some self-righteous urge? The shame burned lowly in his stomach as Thorin unconsciously growled. He could just picture it. Some tall and hairless elf woman, pale as milk with hair a gold as the sun, sniggering behind her hand as she inked out a letter to him. Behind his mind's eye, the feminine softness hardened into masculine hardness, and the pale spider of Mirkwood smirked.

'From one King to another...'

Stinging in his palm distracted Thorin from dark thoughts, and the dwarf prince forced his fingers to relax before his nails cut crescent wounds into the skin.

Stop this. Do not become a fool again.

Thorin let out a gusty sigh that drew concerned looks from Balin and Nardri – the Ironfist cook that had managed to cook palatable meals for the troop when they relied on their own meagre stores of food. No. Pride and assumption were old friends of Thorin, cursed flaws that had led him and his sister-sons to a bitter ruin.

Humility was a sour draught to swallow down to the dregs, but if there was one thing Thorin's failures could teach him, it was that he needed to bend his neck or be broken again. Swallowing thickly, the prince raised blue eyes to take in the steadily raising hills ahead, with the Misty Mountains in the distance.

A chance for the elf witch then.

By my hand, Galadriel.

It was all he could muster himself to offer an elf. Even if she'd written to him in her own hand rather than dictating to a scribe, and apparently woven his satchel with her own fingers.

One chance.

* * *

The High Pass was dry, with faint shafts of sunlight breaking through thin cloud cover and warming up the chill high mountain air. There were no thunderbattles to be had on this particular crossing, or stone giants waking from the edge of near forgotten myth to wage war in the rain on one another.

"Tis a good wind." Balin mused openly, nodding at the grunt Thorin gave in reply. Autumn was dying away, and the dwarven company had little right to expect such good weather for traveling. A few of the more superstitious of their company whispered that their journey must be granted the pity of Mahal after the loss of their homeland, but the Fundinul doubted it.

If Mahal would grant them His favour, it would be something more dramatic and long-reaching than a week of sunny days to make it through the mountain passes.

Thorin had taken to long brooding silences, staring off into the distance with a foreign heaviness to his gaze that worried Balin. There was a weight of years in his young friend's eyes, and the grey-haired dwarf worried for his friend. Erebor stuck them all deeply.

Inga, ghivashel.

Pressing his heels into the deep stone of the mountain with all the inborn surety of dwarves, Balin swallowed past the tide of memory. Once there had been a Firebeard lass, with laughter in her eyes and blazing crimson ringlets that hung scandalously free. The softest and loveliest thick fingers that wielded a needle with deft precision had captivated a noble young dwarrow of Durin's line, and when she'd taken to wearing his courtship bead in her only braid, the dwarrow's father had been outraged.

Now she was gone, ash on the wind, and only he remained.

A warm hand seized Balin's elbow, pulling Fundin's son away from the sharp drop that led to broken stone a thousand feet below. Wolf eye bit into him, full of both understanding and accusation. Balin only smiled reassuringly at Thorin, shaking the hand from his elbow and giving the young dwarf a pat on the shoulder.

They were Durin's folk, carved from the living stones by Mahal, their maker. Unyielding and enduring even the tainted hate of black Morgoth. Balin was no different, and would not stand in shame in the Halls of his Fathers.

Uncharacteristic grimness set in the Fundinul's jaw, and his feet did not wander near the edge of the Pass again.

* * *

Thorin squared his shoulders, ignoring the near mutinous murmurings of his company and the apprehensive expression on Balin's face. The breach of trust between his people and those they once held as allies was a river that ran deep and red like the blood it had cost. But a chance had been promised to one, and another had proven in a time past to be kindly and trustworthy enough.

Sometimes, gambles had to be made. So with a clench of his jaw, Thorin started down the path into the Hidden Valley that led to Rivendell. There was a hush in the air around them, a sort of watchful quiet, and the black-haired prince knew that they were expected.

Elven architecture was both alien and familiar. A beauty wrought by skilled hands out of practice and passion, which curved elegantly and sure around them. The stone was strong and clean, and the songs it sang were welcoming and restful. But it also lacked the closed in warmth of sheltering stone, built on the surface and open to the lights of the heavens. There was no mountain mother here to sing in the deep, and as homely as Imladris was, it could never be home.

"Are you sure about this, laddie?"

"As sure as the blood in my veins, Balin." Thorin replied with a confidence he did not truly feel. Trust was ethereal, hard won and hard kept, and the Prince had lived too many times with Thror's gold madness and the arrogant self-satisfaction of Thranduil to give it easily.

Then there was no more time for words, as the company swept through the gate and swiftly became fenced in by the blank gazes of the Eldar. Neither elf nor dwarf spoke, with the only sound the quiet beat of their movement at Thorin led them further in. The elf crowd thickened, and then finally parted for a familiar dark-haired elf lord.

"Peredhil." Thorin rumbled, folding his arms defensively over his chest. He nearly cursed at the sudden spark of confusion that flashed through the Half-elven's face as Elrond bowed in greeting. There was little excuse to know the elf on sight, and if anyone asked him he would need a believable lie. Thror had known the Lord of Rivendell, and childhood stories would be an ideal excuse.

Except if anyone took it into their skulls to ask the King whether he'd ever spoken to his grandson about the half-elf.

"Thorin, son of Thrain. What brings you to my halls?"

Mahal have mercy. It was one thing to simply take what was offered, or allow one of the Istari to meddle as a go-between. It was entirely another to break his own pride enough to ask. But Thorin had sworn not to fall into old follies. So Thorin Thrainul uncrossed his arms, and forced himself in a bow just low enough for respect.

"I come seeking your aid, and your council."

The need for council was a lie, as Thorin knew perfectly well what might be found in the stone of the Blue Mountains. But it was better to make the Peredhil feel important, and less likely to turn Thorin and his company away. After living and dying so many times, there was hardly anything Thorin wished to know that he didn't know. Though there were many things he did know, that he wished to forget.

(Like blood and ash, and the long reach of the Dimrill Dale.)

Elrond only smiled kindly, and stretched his arms in a gesture of welcome. "Then you shall receive it."

* * *

Elvish wine was red and sweet, staining Thorin's lips as he sipped from a fragile appearing wooden goblet. Wolf eyes pinned Elrond, staring at the Lord of Rivendell while the Half-Elven expounded on the history of Nogrod and Belegost. The Prince of Erebor hardly had any need for education on the record of his own people, but it gave credence to his excuse of seeking Elrond's council.

It also quieted Balin and his company to see him needing the Peredhil's aid. Otherwise, Thorin knew that he would have to face many more questions as to why he was so easily trusting elves after Thranduil's treachery. Taking the aid of Lady Galadriel had been contentious enough, but there was a difference between accepting aid offered and seeking aid out.

"I would expect here to be a likely choice." Thorin rumbled, pointing a thick finger in the general vicinity of what had eventually become his halls in the area of Harlindon. "Nogrod and Belegost were much further to the north, and even today the descendents of their people live in the northern part of the range. The south is more likely to be untouched and ripe for colonization."

Elrond's face was blank as he stared down at the map, comparing current dwarven settlements to historical ones and only slightly off put by Thorin's gruff manner. The dwarf prince was to-the-point and blunt, but made an obvious effort to not be openly offensive. The Prince of Erebor had even made a game effort of listening to the Half-Elven historian wax poetic about the historical studies he so loved.

"I would suspect you are right." Elrond agreed slowly, before a flash of movement in the corner of his eye drew his gaze. A welcoming smile split the Elf Lord's face, and he rose to his feet with a slight incline of the head. "You are unexpected as always, Mithrandr, but welcome, as always."

"You must learn to expect the unexpected, Lord Elrond". Gandalf teased as he swept in from the dining hall to the terrace where Thorin and Elrond had been having a 'private' audience. The smell of pipeweed strongly accompanied the worn looking Grey Pilgrim, and was familiar enough to have Thorin snapping his head about.

"Tharkun?"

Thorin's bark was incredulous and enough to draw both Elrond and Gandalf's gazes. Swallowing past the urge to slam his fist on the table in frustration at his reaction, the dwarf hastily spit out with ill-humor "It seems that my grandfather's tales are coming to life one after another this day. Is the Shipright lurking in the wings next?"

Frowning at Thorin as if he were a puzzle to be solved, the wizard wrapped both hands around his staff and leaned on it before huffing "I assure you Thorin, son of Thrain, that Cirdan would not be one to lurk in the wings. And before you take it in to your mind to ask, Saruman will hardly be lurking in the kitchen."

Part of Thorin marvelled at Gandalf's ability to know so many people simply from sight and a touch of physical resemblance to another. Most of him was simply disgusted with himself that his falsehoods were so easily accepted. It tasted too much like deception and dishonor, even if some buried part of him insisted that it was necessary.

Nodding first to his host and then to the wizard, Thorin shot to his feet. "I'll leave you to your business with the Peredhil, Tharkun." With a grit of the teeth, Thorin tossed out "I thank you for your hospitality, Lord Elrond".

It was a start at diplomacy.

* * *

Thorin and his company had sheltered in Rivendell for three days when Thorin woke one chilly morning and stood on the balcony to simply take in the view. Even the proud dwarf prince couldn't deny the delicate beauty of the city, even if resentment burned in him at the sight of it.

It felt patently unfair that time and again Durin's folk had to lose everything. Driven from one home to another to another, and finally into the inhospitable wilderness while the elves enjoyed peace and plenty unending. Honest work for an honest day's pay only bought blood and dragonfire in the end for the dwarves, while drinking and merrymaking stretched on through years unending for the Eldar. Thorin could not help but seethe in resentment.

"Well aren't you just the most prickly little hedgehog?" A low, throaty caw echoed near his ear, and Thorin spun about with his heart leaping into his throat. Favouring the dwarf prince with a distinctly unimpressed look, a fat balding raven shuffled along the marble balcony railing until it was easily in reach.

Frowning fiercely at the old raven, Thorin snarled "I'm as much a hedgehog as you are a pie, bird. Shall we make it so?"

Warbling out a rusty chuckle, the black bird peeked at the dwarf with a curious beady eye. "Peace, Thorin Thrainson. I am Carc of the Ravenhill. Perhaps you know of me?"

"I know of you and your grey wisdom, Lord of Ravens." Thorin admitted after a moment, the knit of his eyebrows relaxing. The ravens of Erebor had ever been friends of the dwarves, and Carc's fidelity and acumen had been famous even when Thorin was truly young. It sent a thread of reluctant warmth into his veins to meet the old bird. "What would you have of me?"

"Aught but your friendship, and the friendship of your people Thrainul." Carc croaked back sourly, huffing at the displeased expression that it drew from Thorin. "Our friendship endured long before Thror was even born, and it will be remembered long after that stubborn goat is stone."

"The King sent you away?" The surprise was an unwelcome twisting in his bowels, and Thorin grit his teeth as realization dawned. He'd always been told that it was the ravens who had left the dwarves – not out of betrayal, but out of sheer distance and an inability to leave their hill. Yet it must have been Thror who decided to cut that tie, and then lie to them all about it. And for what? Pride and a gaudy independence bought with the blood of those who died from late messages, or poor scouting?

A seething moment passed before Carc nodded his bald head in agreement. "That one is ever steeped in pride, Thrain did not speak for us, and it is not our nature to beg friendship with those that would cast us away. I would not have expected to see your presence in our refuge here though, princeling."

"Neither would I have thought to see you and your's here, Chief Raven." Searing the black bird with a suspicious look, Thorin gave a vague sweeping gesture. "Have you made allegiance with the elves then?"

Carc's reply was a throaty chuckle. "I have little allegiance with the Noldor or any other among the Eldar. It was the Khazad that bore our nestlings out of the ruin of Beleriand, not the Peredhil. Though my goodwill does go with him, I would not make lasting faith with any but Durin's folk."

"Even though that faith is now broken by word of the King, and his heir has done nothing?"

The beady eye that stared out from the side of the bald raven's head was black and cool as Carc allowed the silence to stretch long between them. "Even then." Eventually bubbled up.

Thorin reached up to stroke his shorn beard in a gesture of thought, wishing he had a pipe to smoke and soothe his nerves with. A tug of hair on gold drew his attention, and Thorin looked down at his thick fingers. The gold band glittered dimly in the grey light of early morn, and fit snug and perfect and was made especially for him in the forges of the homeland. The scarlet emerald set in it was like a frozen drop of blood.

The prince pulled it gently from his fingers, turning it over in one hand before holding it out to the raven. "Would you make faith with me then?" Thorin was serene as Carc stared at him, dark eyes shifting between the presented trinket and the dwarf prince offering it.

* * *

"Amad, why did Thorin leave?"

Dis pulled on the hem of her mother's skirt, fingers grubby from the road leaving more dirt ground into the crimson dress once fine enough for the court. It was an old question, and one that Dis had asked frequently in the month after Thorin had left.

Grasping her daughter's hand in her own, Fris raised weary eyes to stare at the fields of Rohan stretching out endlessly before them. "Because your brother wanted to find us a new home, sweetling." Talk of ores beneath the mountains, and the economic value of them, and how that would feed and clothe their people well was beyond a girl of Dis' tender years. But her golden daughter understood what home was well enough.

"Then why didn't we go with him?"

"Because he doesn't know if he'll succeed." Frerin sighed, the young blonde dwarf brushing crusts of dirt from his own once fine garb. "We'll find one quicker if we both look." Thrain's second son was growing older quickly. Duties that had once belonged to Thorin had fallen to him, scratching away the levity her son had been born with. The hardness in his face had only grown, increment by increment, since the day the dragon had taken their homeland.

It made her heart blaze with pride and ache with sorrow in the same moment.

The days had crawled away since her eldest son had vanished into the early morning mists with little more than a moment's notice. Fear and anger had sprung in her heart then, and the only words she'd hard for the stubborn boy had been sharp and cutting. Fris regretted it, like she regretted allowing him to leave at all, even though she knew that neither was in her power to change now.

Thorin. Thorin. Thorin. Her dreams sighed in the night. My son. My son. My son. The wind whispered in the East. It seemed that the curse and rage of Mahal must lay heavily on her husband's house, for waking with her son parted and not knowing if he was succeeding in his quest of if Thorin was even still alive was the bitter cup Fris ever had to taste.

Pushing on though the swiftly drying morning dew, Fris tightened her belt against another day of striving and hunger. The land of the Horselords was kinder than the empty Brown Lands had been, or the fields and hills near the blighted sickness in Mirkwood. Peace had returned with the blade of Frealaf-King, and some scraps of food could be battered for from the villages they had passed.

The sting of shame Fris had felt when she traded on of the delicate gold rings Thrain had made for her was nothing compared to the relief the beggared Princess felt when she returned to her children and husband with enough food to feed them for a week. Thrain and Frerin had insisted on sharing their shares with the dwarves of Erebor, and Fris could hardly grudge them for it.

But she would fight tooth and nail if they suggested giving up Dis' share to help. Desperation was breeding a sickness within her. Fris could taste the black determination in the dark spaces of the night, and knew that she didn't have the selfless hardness her husband had. She was more mother than princess, and if some other dwarf had to starve for her daughter to survive, so be it.

"Look amad, a raven!"

Dis' startled shout drew the blonde dwarrowdam from her thoughts, even as the scurrying whispers of the dwarves of Erebor began to rise around her. Few had been the words and news received from the ravens of Erebor after that fall of the mountain, and the alliance had grown fallow the further Durin's folk had been forced to wander.

But still they came, and for now that friendship endured. Pulling her fingers to her lips, Fris gave a trilling whistle, and waited as the black bird circled about and made a bee-line for the blonde Princess. Black feathers gleamed under the sunlight around the thin, healthy frame of the raven, and Fris realized that it must still be young. Young and reckless likely, to still be bringing messages so far.

Reaching her arm up, Fris allowed the bird to alight on her arm before giving Dis a warning squeeze of her fingers. Her daughter quieted her excited babbling and watched the raven with a wide gaze.

"What news, friend?"

The raven preened, cleaning his feathers in a typically raven show of vanity before croaking out in a caw "Greetings dwarrowdam. I am Roac, son of Carc." He shifted to stare at her with a beady black orb. "I am bid only to surrender my words to a chosen few. I seek Thrain, son of Thror. Are you able to direct me to him?"

"I am Fris, daughter of Freya, Princess of Erebor. Thrain is my husband, any news you have for him you may speak to me."

Roac trilled with both satisfaction and amusement. "That is well enough. Fris, daughter of Freya, was one of those chosen few. Though if you were not, I would refuse to speak of my charge regardless of your marriage."

Ignoring the bubble of annoyance, Fris nodded tightly. A raven's honor was not to be dismissed, or the bargains they had made. If the promises the birds had made were so easily forgotten, they would not have been held in such high esteem in Erebor. "I charge you to speak your message then, friend raven."

"I bear a message from Thorin, son of Thrain." Roac squawked in discomfort when Fris gave a sudden jerk of hope and fear. Resettling himself with a sour glance, the raven continued. "He and his company have taken the High Pass, and by his command they enjoy the hospitality of Lord Elrond. Our friendship with the dwarves of Erebor is renewed, and my father yet now resides in the valley of Imladris."

"Rivendell?" Fris couldn't help but bark incredulously. "What in the name of Mahal would drive him to consider trusting elves?"

Cocking his head, Roac gave a confused bob. "The Prince spoke at length with my father, and less with me. Though I understand there was some manner of assistance received from the Lady of the Golden Wood. "

Sorcery, it must be. Fris stood in a daze, licking dry lips. There was no way that Thorin would join his hands with elves again so easily. She'd seen the black hatred burning in him towards the Elvenking, and Thorin was never one to forgive any grudge.

"I have delivered news for you, Fris daughter of Freya. I return now to Imladris. Shall I carry any word for you in return?"

"Tell my idiot son to be careful."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary:
> 
> Peredhil : Half-Elven. Sindarin.
> 
> Ghivashel: Treasure of all treasures. An endearment. Khuzdul.
> 
> -ul: A Khuzdul suffix that translates into "son". Thorin Thrainul is thus "Thorin Thrainson".
> 
> Tharkun: Khuzdul. "staff-man". Gandalf's name among the Khazad.
> 
> Istar – Quenya. Wizard. Plural is Istari.
> 
> Harlindon – The southern part of Lindon, a coastal elven kingdom around the Blue Mountains.
> 
> Ravenhill – The hill near Erebor where the ravens who held allegiance with the dwarves lived.
> 
> Currently Living Members of the Company: Thorin, Balin, Dori.
> 
> Current Year: Near the end of Autumn in TA 2770.
> 
> Inga: An OC firebeard dwarrowdam that Balin loved, who died at Erebor, and who Balin never got over. And never will.
> 
> Bagginshield: Is out for now, in terms of being a past romance. For the record here, just assume that prior to the groundhog day, Thorin's past was as canon. So male Bilbo, no lovers, no children, and no bride. That's not to say it's impossible. The butterfly effect is always in motion, and there's literally nothing stopping me from having Bilbo be born a girl, or with siblings, or not born at all.
> 
> On sexuality: This is really a random burble, but reading on AO3 for a few days really hammers home how different views that people have of sexuality in Middle Earth. I would err on the side of very chaste, both because that's true to Tolkien's (Christian, Catholic) vision of the legendarium, and because it's realistic given the time period and the characters of the different races living there.
> 
> A lot of the time, I see hobbits portrayed as this fertile, sexual race where there's nothing wrong with tumbling in the hay, very free love, and so on. And as far as I'm concerned, that's as wrong as wrong could be about hobbits. How does so close minded you can't even talk to visitors in the Shire without looking odd translate to sexual freedom? It's a very insular society that's close-minded and overly concerned with propriety. I'd guess them to be the least sexually free, outside of dwarves, and only because the dwarves are probably nearly asexual.
> 
> Men are men. Which is to say, about what you'd expect from medieval human sexuality. So tumbling in the hay and infidelity happens, but expect shunning if you're ever found out.
> 
> I'd actually guess the elves to be the most sexually loose. Not only because they're old and liable to not be overly concerned about propriety because of it, but because they seem to have this very naturalistic and earthy sort of psychology going on. But it's complicated by the fact that elves can't die. Not permanently anyway, and if your spouse dies you can just float across to Aman and meet them again after they're "reincarnated" (not to be flippant, since the death would be traumatic, but that's how it is, simplistically). Combine this with them being moralistic as all hell, with low fertility, and I'd rate them as more promiscuous than Hobbits and less than Men, despite the free love psychology they might have.
> 
> As for dwarves, they're so asexual that it's not even odd if a dwarf goes his whole life married to the craft and never sires children. Combine that with the women being only a third of all births, and I would picture sex as something that's simply not spoken all that much of. But when it is, that they're very concerned about who's having sex with who because children and thus heirs are so rare.
> 
> That's not to say the races of Middle Earth aren't sexual. Hobbits and elves likely have more sex than anyone else, and dwarves less sex than anyone else, but I imagine that unless it's in the marital bed it's going to be frowned upon. Remember we're not dealing with modern, western feminism here, even though I see its influence in what some people write. Middle Earth is a traditionalist medieval society that probably tells fiery hobbit lasses to get back to the kitchen, and then calls them Mad Baggins when they don't.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own anything in Tolkien's Legendarium, and I make no profit writing about it.

* * *

_"In Western lands beneath the Sun, the flowers may rise in Spring..."_

* * *

The smell of cooking pork wafted as sausages were turned over the spit, with the chattering of dwarven drinking and singing in the early evening. Thorin tried desperately not to begrudge his people their meagre joys, but the dragon and death was too near in his memories, and the prince could only screw on a blank facade over the bitter burning in his gut.

"There's no need to be so sour, Thorin. They're quite a merry gathering."

"There is little to be merry and much to mourn in these times, Tharkun." Thorin bit out, blue eyes flashing like frigid sapphires as his brow folded into a prodigious frown. The scent of pipe smoke hung in the air as Thorin took a puff from his newly obtained pipe, sucking down the burning taste of tobacco borrowed from the Istar.

"All the more reason not to begrudge them their small happinesses." The Grey Pilgrim mused airily, blowing smoke rings in ever shrinking size.

Thorin still had little idea as to why Gandalf had chosen to attach himself to their company. The wizard had begged off with some excuse about strength in numbers and safety, which rang hollow as Thorin knew Tharkun journeyed alone the vast majority of the time.

Anger simmered lowly in Thorin's veins as he remembered the wizard had ultimately chosen to side against him in front of his own gates at the end of the quest. Gandalf had scolded him as an errant child for defending the wealth and heirlooms of his people. What did some Stormcrow know of the Bloodstone of Nargothrond, where crystal imprisoned the blood of Durin and Felagund yet mingled in the friendship of Elder Days? As if that wandering dizhat-turg would have felt anything with Queen Ygraine's delicate mithril harp in his hands, borne out of Moria by Nain the first when his ancestor had been a beardless orphan.

Rage rose and darkened his vision, a misty haze as the prince clenched his teeth over his thoughts. He had once accounted the Istar as a friend, just as he had held faith in Bilbo, but both had turned on him when the occasion rose. The burglar had been a trusted ally, even in the depths of madness, until the Halfling decided to make common cause with the Pale Spider of Mirkwood. Aye, he regretted his violence toward the hobbit, but not his anger. To be dispossessed in favor of a beardless oathbreaker that had held little remorse over imprisoning his Company in the dungeons and robbing them of what little they had.

Pain pulled the dwarf from his brooding as the pipe burnt his tongue from being held in one place so long. Spitting out the last of tobacco smoke, Thorin dumped the ash from his pipe with a dark glare and shoved it into the wallet strapped to his belt. The prince rose to his feet and stomped away from the camp, needing fresh air to clear his head of anger and thoughts of treachery.

To be fair, Bilbo had good intentions. The hobbit was a simple son of The Shire, where concepts of Kings and Divine Right were barely even imagined. Heirlooms were mere 'mathoms' to gather dust the Halfling had told him once during their journey. There were no treasures passed down from hand to hand for a thousand years, drowned in the blood and of his race.

Even that bargeman had been fair enough, to seek the inheritance of Dale and some recompense for Smaug's destruction. If Thorin had not been so lost in the dragon sickness, he would have parted willingly enough with Dale's treasure for Girion's heir. Bard had inflamed his rage and possessiveness by bringing an armed host to his doorstep and demanding so bluntly, yet what could he have truly expected from one that had been little more than a peasant with nothing to cling to but old tales of greatness once enjoyed?

Tharkun should have known better. The wizard was old enough and familiar with loss to recognize why he cared so for the treasure of Erebor, and learned enough to know of the gold madness. Would it have been too much to ask for someone he had once nearly called friend to have some measure of faith in his innate character rather than assuming he was merely greedy?

Bitterness drained away with a sigh. Yet even his own companions, dwarves he had known for years, turned their backs on him and accused him outright of cowardice and greed. Perhaps they had simply been unwilling to hold faith with one stricken by such madness. Mayhap they were right – someone stronger than he was might have been able to shove aside the foreign rage and lust for gleaming hordes.

Maybe his failure was little more than the result of his own shameful weakness.

Turning his head about when the surroundings became familiar, Thorin brutally shoved away the increasing self-flagellation of his thoughts. It was a skill well practiced after Azanulbizar. He could think on his ineptitude later. Why would a random outcropping of hilly rock appear to be familiar? The prince narrowed his eyes at the trees and rock surrounding him, digging back into his memory. Recognition sparked, and Thorin threw his head back in manic laughter.

Perhaps his creator had managed to imbue him with some luck. Turning to the hill that he'd wandered by deep in thought, Thorin shuffled around the rock until he came across a familiar stone. Pressing against it, the dwarf threw his muscles into the effort and shoved the boulder aside to reveal a dark cave.

Once upon a lifetime, the hiding hole before him had belonged to a trio of trolls that had tied his company in sacks and nearly eaten them. Thorin was beginning to suspect the cave predated that particular trio, and perhaps had served as a home for some roving bandit-king in times long gone by. It was a small hope that he might find his faithful Orcrist so early, as perhaps whomever had buried it in the troll's cave had not yet brought it, but he had little to lose investigating.

Thorin had been taught a measure of caution when entering any place beneath the earth. The longstanding enmity between Durin's Folk and foul things in the deep required it. Yet the dwarf prince found himself stepping into the dark with nary a care. What was the worst anything lurking could do? Kill him?

* * *

Bree was, if Thorin could indulge in language that once had his mother washing his mouth out in soap, a complete and utter shithole. Shaking the mingled rain and mud from his braids, the dwarf scowled up at Tharkun before following the wizard into the Prancing Pony.

Balin and Dori pressed in behind him, the latter still so young with bright red hair and tendency to simper over the proper he would never grow out of. The inn grew quiet as the regular customers watched the wizard step inside with a gaggle of dwarves at his heels.

Scowling at the squinty looks his company was favoured, Thorin shoved a small pouch of gold into Gandalf's hand and stomped over to a corner booth with the handful of his company that would be staying at the inn. Liberated from the little treasure cave that he'd found Orcrist in two centuries early, the coinage should be more than enough to bribe off a reluctant innkeep.

Gandalf only looked horribly amused as he bounced the pouch in one hand before leaning in to speak to the innkeeper, Glamdring snug at the wizard's hip.

Thorin still wasn't entirely sure that giving over the King of Gondolin's blade to the wizard that had turned on him was the best of ideas. Yet for all their disagreements, sour pain mingled in old fondness and the burn of treachery, the dwarf prince could freely admit that Gandalf's true enemy was The Enemy. None could ever truly accuse Tharkun of being an orc-friend, and he'd wreaked more damage on the filth in his time than almost any other.

So the Prince that had once been King in another lifetime swallowed down his rage, his grief, and his bitterness to make a kingly gift of the Foe-Hammer. Balin had argued fiercely against it, as selling the blade to some noble in Gondor or to the Far-East could have fed many of their people in their poverty. But Thorin had put his food down. Some unconscious part whispered that without the blade in hand, many things that Gandalf would achieve may be left undone.

A plate of potatoes with gravy is shoved under his nose, liberally sprinkled with herb and smelling absolutely heavenly. With a reluctant watering of the mouth, Thorin looks up at the wrinkled and grey barmaid that had passed it to him and gives a nod of thanks. The woman smiles genially, the pleasant expression hearkening back to her youth when she once may have been pretty.

Thorin scoops a heaping spoonful and shoves it in his mouth with little decorum, ignoring the horrific table manners of his soldiers as he observe Gandalf weaving back over to them and dropping into a seat with a faint grimace.

"I see even the great and noble Istari are not immune to the limitations of age." Thorin commented wryly, ignoring the knowledge that once upon a future he himself had been middle-aged and prone to stiffness.

Huffing, the wizard took a sip of red wine from his goblet. "I would comment on the poor manners of dwarves, if it weren't common knowledge already." A faint grimace flew across Gandalf's face at the poor vintage, before the elderly man assumed a look of resignation and took another mouthful.

"That's entirely unfair, Gandalf." Balin pointed out, carefully cutting into his own meal with dainty table manners fit for an elf lord's court. "It's hardly our fault that no others understand how to have a truly good time. "

The wizard merely snorted in reply, lighting his pipe and leaning back in his chair for some smoking.

Changing the subject, Thorin studied Tharkun with an intent expression "The elf blade suits you well?"

"I could ask for no finer blade, as you well know." A smoke ring floated away in the dim tavern before the wizard smiled amiably. "I have said it before, but I will say it again. My thanks, Thorin."

The prince nodded gravely in reply before a pinch at the elbow drew his attention over to Balin.

"I still have no idea how exactly you came across the blades and the gold." The old dwarf pointed out with a curious note, concern buried underneath. Whether the concern was if Thorin had made a foolish deal with some ruffian, or stolen the treasure from some dark creature liable to seek revenge, the prince couldn't truly say.

Not acknowledging the curious glint in the eyes of the wizard sitting across from him, Thorin took a swig of the poor ale that was served in the inn before giving a nonchalant shrug. "It was little more than I told you, Balin. I was wandering around the camp, working through my thoughts, when I noticed a poorly hidden cave. After I investigated it, the only things there were the blades and the gold, and some trinkets scattered about. It was likely some abandoned bandit's hideaway, hardly anything to be concerned about."

"You were surprisingly generous with the spoils, Thorin." Gandalf pointed out, smirking at the glare the prince gave him. The obvious and insulting tease being that typically Thorin was greedy and self-centered. "You kept little for yourself but the two blades."

"And what should I do with a few chests of gold and gems on the road, Tharkun?" Thorin returned tartly. "They are hardly a king's ransom, though may be of great use to feed and clothe my men. Most of the weapons in the plunder were hardly remarkable – old dwarf or elf work yes, but nothing of legend. Only the blade I took for my own use and the one I gave to you are rare work."

Raising a bushy brow, Gandalf trailed a significant look at where Thorin had belted a dagger over his new longsword. "Which hardly explains why you would take an 'unremarkable' dagger for your own, given that you typically use both hands for your other blade."

"They are a mated pair." Thorin pointed out baldly. It wasn't even a lie. Orcrist and the dagger Bilbo had named Sting bore the same smith's mark, and their embellishments were so complementary they obviously belonged together. And despite the late end betrayal his friend had given him, Thorin had forgiven the hobbit enough not to pass his blade off to someone else.

Perhaps when it was time to retake Erebor – and they would take back their homeland – he may yet gift the blade to Bilbo, for the sake of their friendship. And until then, he would keep it and endure little questions from others after explaining the pairing of the blades. Arms of such quality that were crafted together were rarely separated. Some tall Noldor lord could have easily wielded both at once in the forgotten days of Gondolin. "Though I see little of why it is such a concern of your's, Tharkun."

"It is no concern. Just idle curiosity, my friend."

* * *

The Shire is the softest place he's ever been, Thorin realizes. The wilderness of Rhovanion is a hard place, as are the untamed spaces of Eriador. The Halls he had once built in Ered Luin were a scrabbling existence where the sweat of one's brow put food in one's stomach. Even Erebor had been a country where riches mingled with blood and the burn of muscles in the deep..

Yet the gentle hills that were dusted with the beginning of frost and yellow leaves from shedding trees were free with their bounty. The Halflings that shuffled out of the way of his well-armed company were skittish at the mere thought of the blade, and round with the harvest.

(Save the Tooks and Brandybucks, who Thorin knew instantly by the curious chattering they made towards the dwarves rather than the shying away. Many were the stories his burglar friend had told around the campfire of the clans in the Shire, and the difference between those two and the rest because obvious upon observation).

Staying in Hobbiton ached almost as fierce as those first deaths Erebor had. The company had stayed only one night in the Inn of the Green Dragon, where Gandalf parted from them to stay in the innocent land the wizard loved best. That entire night, dusk to dawn, found Thorin outside in the cold early winter night puffing his puff and staring absently at the blank hill that would one day be covered in smials.

And hopefully Bag End.

It was exceedingly strange, Thorin realized, that it had taken him this long to start questioning seriously the circumstances he existed in. A large part of him had bled out screaming on the slopes of his homeland, convinced that the life he was living was little more than a curse laid upon his benighted soul. Though there was little about him to garner such personal attention from Morgoth.

Not that he had failed to think about his recurrent lives and death before. But it had all been shoved aside in sheer desperation and stubbornness. And if not for coming to Eriador, Thorin may yet have spent months or years simply shoving aside the questions pertaining to his existence.

Such a thing was absurd and required an answer. None in the entire history of Arda had ever done such a thing. Or had they? Was being cursed to relive one's life a personal hell for the greatest of sinners?

No.

Thorin was full of flaws. Even the prince could admit it. But he was hardly on the level of such great evils as Sauron or Morgoth – to live his life over again and experience his pains unto eternity. Yet even if he was cursed as such, why could he so easily change the course of it? Why was he not an unseeing passenger in his own flesh?

Why could he change and do things that had never occurred or even nearly occurred in his own actual life?

If he was consigned to torture, why was he not actually tortured? Why could he have taken small joys and amusements if he were willing to?

Was he even dead?

The thought rose hot and needing between Thorin's eyes. What if this entire existence, this entire cycle of death and rebirth, was little more than a fever dream as his true flesh was healing in Thranduil's tents after the battle? What if he had never reached out and apologized for his weaknesses? What if Bilbo was dead? What if Fili and Kili were alive and yet sitting around Thorin's sickbed, watching their sweating and dying uncle wander dreams in poison and bleeding?

It took the dryness of his teeth for Thorin to realize that he was hunched over, heaving with a dry mouth as his pipe lay abandoned on the cobblestones before him. Carc was squawking incoherently beyond the roaring in the dwarf's ears, the raven having been assigned to accompany Thorin during his wanderings.

Assuming the raven, and Thorin himself, even existed.

_Peace._

_Peace, my son._

_Peace, dearest heart of my adoption._

The coolness poured down the dwarf's spine, seizing all his splintering thoughts and freezing a calming warmth through them. Thorin's flesh cooled from ruddy panic, and his thumping heart slowed. The fingers that scooped up his pipe from stone was steady.

Thorin straightened, cool blue eyes drinking in the scattered starlight and heavy white shining of the fat moon that hung in the sky. Thrain's son could recognize well enough that he was falling to pieces, tearing at the seams and flying away in the wind in between life and death. But the sanity was in him – an ice cold tide that rose up to grasp his errant thoughts and force them into some coherent sense of order.

I think, therefore I am.

* * *

Such snow capped hills were old as the sea.

Thorin dug thick fingers into the blue clay of the mountains, the white dusting of snow about him chilly and sending Balin into a conniption about the threat that it had towards the unwary. None in the company were to go without boots or gloves. All must sleep in tents in full gear. The company must hurry towards the small settlements of their distant kin.

Yet Thorin could not find it in his heart yet to pull away from the clay and stone that made up the winding azure of Ered Luin. How many years – decades, even centuries! – had these quiet mountains fed and housed his people? Thorin was neither Firebeard nor Broadbeam, but the very taste of the mountains was old.

And sacred.

The sense that every dwarf had of stone was not to be dismissed. They were Mahal's children, and no other race had ever understood what they truly meant. Ore was in the blood. The very stone was in their flesh. They could touch it, taste it, feel it, smell it, hear it. The stone itself even spoke to them. And the voice of the earth was clearest to Durin's sons most of all.

'Welcome home' the stone said, deep and mothering and smelling of the greatest sweetness. 'Come unto me. Know me. Make your dwellings within my flesh. Take your sustenance from my marrow'

If he was among men Thorin would have stood,straight backed and hard as the stone he was carved of. His eyes would piece the very edges of his lids as his chin rose not the least fraction to speak to any Man or Elf that would fancy themselves about Aule's Children.

Yet he was only among the Khazad, and the Khazad understood it when he collapsed boneless and prostrate before the cobalt stone.

Balin was by his side, tears running down the Fundinul's creased face as his kinsman couldn't even begin to resist the urge to lay hand on stream or stone running down from the distant frozen peaks.

It was not the first time Thorin had walked among the indigo stone, tasting their songs and pulling precious ore from its flesh. Iron thrummed hard and strong in the deep, with silver and gold a warm faint note urging seduction. Emerald, ruby, and sapphires hummed in mountain veins, crowned in diamond and urging to be pulled from darkness.

The first time Thorin had laid his heart down on the blue slopes, he had listened to the dying song and recognized the fading notes in his soul.

Somewhere in the Blue Mountains , the old father and mother of the Broadbeams had woken and delved Belegost. The first father and mother of the Firebeards had risen up and carved out Nogrod in Elder Days. Even drowned beneath the seas, Durin's heir could hear their songs, and do nought but weep for the lost sorrow of his race.

How beautiful and warm would the songs of Khazad-dum be? How holy and deep would Gundabad reach into them? Durin's waking place and Durin's halls would surely speak even deeper than Azaghal's and Galmar's.

But Durin's halls and birth were lost forever to them.

Swallowing thickly, Thorin laid a hand on Balin's shoulder and rose to his feet. Hard blue eyes swung about, sucking in the expression of the dwarrow that had followed him over stone and stream. Longing and mournful gazes meet his own, and Thorin gave a lopsided smile before starting a nearly tuneless call in Khuzdul.

_"The world was young, the mountains green,_  
_No stain yet on the Moon was seen,_  
_No words were laid on stream or stone,_  
_When Durin woke and walked alone._  
_He named the nameless hills and dells;_  
_He drank from yet untasted wells;_  
_He stooped and looked in Mirrormere,_  
_And saw a crown of stars appear._  
_As gems upon a silver thread,_  
_Above the shadow of his head."_

By the end of the verse Balin had shrugged off his hand, staring blankly over the blue tinged edges of the mountains and rising to his feet. The low rumble of Nardri had sprung up almost instantly, the Ironfist pressing a hand over his heart with tears in his eyes.

_"The world was fair, the mountains tall,_  
_In Elder Days before the fall_  
_Of mighty kings in Nargothrond,_  
_And Gondolin, who now beyond_  
_The Western Seas have passed away._  
_The world was fair in Durin's Day._

_A king he was on carven throne,_  
_In many-pillared halls of stone._  
_With golden roof and silver floor,_  
_And runes of power upon the door._  
_The light of sun and star and moon,_  
_In shining lamps of crystal hewn,_  
_Undimmed by cloud or shade of night,_  
_There shone for ever fair and bright._

_There hammer on the anvil smote._  
_There chisel clove, and graver wrote._  
_There forged was blade, and bound was hilt._  
_The delver mined, the mason built._  
_There beryl, pearl, and opal pale,_  
_And metal wrought like fishes' mail._  
_Buckler and corset, axe and sword,_  
_And shining spears were laid in hoard._

_Unwearied then were Durin's folk;_  
_Beneath the mountains music woke._  
_The harpers harped, the minstrels sang,_  
_And at the gates the trumpets rang."_

The clamor of the dwarves was ringing in the wilderness, wind and bird silent before the low rumble of the dwarves' voices. Their song had rose up from one dwarf like the tide, sprung forth from ancient memory, sorrow, and the long near constant loss the people of Mahal had endured since the dawn of the Sun.

Thorin's voice was distinguishable in the din as the prince turned his gaze to the East, eyes distant and full of fire and wroth. If those eyes had been focused on him, Dori knew he could have done little but quail away from the sheer passion written in those blue orbs. But they were focused away and distant in some unknown promise, and all dwarrow near could do little but hearken to them.

There was a promise in Thorin's eyes, blue and hot with pain, though none could say what it was at the time. Some would claim that it was little more than determination to provide the bounty of the Blue Mountains to his destitute people. The braver would claim that it was a bolder promise to drive Smaug from Erebor and reclaim the Lonely Mountain for Durin's Folk. Some who would be known as madmen and fools would swear by their bones that there was a fire burning within Thorin, son of Thrain, that would cleanse Khazad-dum and stand before Khalad-zaram with a fearsome light in his face.

Whichever destiny awaited the destitute prince, those that had rode and walked with him to the foothills of Ered Luin were nearly compelled to add their throats to the swelling song.

_"The world is grey, the mountains old,_  
_The forge's fire is ashen-cold._  
_No harp is wrung, no hammer falls._  
_The darkness dwells in Durin's halls._  
_The shadow lies upon his tomb,_  
_In Moria, in Khazad-dûm._  
_But still the sunken stars appear_  
_In dark and windless Mirrormere._  
_There lies his crown in water deep,_  
_Till Durin wakes again from sleep."_

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (AN): So this hit about 4200 words, including Tolkien's song. Took me a day, which was fast and determined I guess? I hope you all enjoyed it. It was mostly character study here, with Thorin moving from Rivendell to Ered Luin. I also touched on dwarven nature as well.
> 
> Glossary:  
> dizhat-turg: Khuzdul. "One with an unkempt beard.". An insult.
> 
> Bloodstone of Nargothrond: This is just an heirloom I made up myself, as Thorin is shown in the book to have an attachment to some items in which "were wound old memories of the labours and the sorrows of his race". So I made one up. If you're unfamiliar with Silmarillion and such lore and implications, the stone is basically a crystal that contains the blood of Durin (First Father of Dwarves) and Finrod Felegund (brother of the High King of the Noldor) that mingle in an eternal oath of friendship between elves and dwarves. Obviously, that oath was broken, but the item itself endures.
> 
> Harp of Ygraine: Just another heirloom Thorin treasures in Erebor that I decided to name. The instrument of Queen Ygrain, mother of Nain I and wife of Durin VI. I'll probably continue to add original items like this to explain Thorin's emotional attachment to Erebor beyond mere gold.
> 
> Sting and Orcist as a mated pair: Is under no circumstances as allusion to yaoi Bagginshield. I said I'll never write yaoi as a main pairing, and in Tolkienverse probably never even reference it as a possibility. Thorin taking and keeping String is basically a tribute to his not-even-born-yet close friend. There is no romantic intent. However, if I swing back and have fem!hobbit show up, then Sting will probably come into play as a kind of romantic device.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own anything from the Tolkien Legendarium and make no profit writing fanfiction.
> 
> Glossary:
> 
> Kargûna – Khuzdul; "honor-lady". Woman of honor. Honorable lady.
> 
> Abnâthukraf – Khuzdul; Oathbreaker.
> 
> Binarzâm- Khuzdul; Faithless.
> 
> Nun'el – Khuzdul; Sister of all sisters.
> 
> Nuddel – Khuzdul; Brother of all brothers.
> 
> Enedwaith – Sindarin;" Middle Region". Located west of Dunland and Rohan. South of Bree and Eriador.
> 
> Tharbad – Sindarin; "The Crossing Place". Only Numenorean settlement in Enedwaith. Formerly an outpost of Arnor, then Gondor. Taken over by the Dunlendings following the Great Plague, and eventually abandoned entirely after the Fell Winter.

* * *

_"Still round the corner we may meet..."_

* * *

White mist streamed from his mouth as Thorin sighed, shoving his hands into his pockets and shivering in the early winter chill. It had taken many hours for a nearly beardless dwarf child to scamper about the scattered huts and shallow mines of the few dwarves who lived in the southern Blue Mountains and collect the old toothless greybeards that made up what passed for a ruling council.

The main reason that Thorin had chosen to settle his halls in the short southern arm below the Gulf of Lhun both in his first life and this one, besides the surprisingly nearly untouched stone, was that the dwarrow living there numbered in the few hundreds. Nogrod and Belegost lay upon the floor of the Sea, and the refugee Firebeards and Broadbeams that hadn't fled to Khazad-dum and been absorbed by the Longbeards tunneled to the north of the Gulf.

Yet there were a few enterprising souls that had dug shallow mine shafts, eking out a comfortable if not rich living by trading with the elves of Lindon. Among those hardy folk Bifur could likely be found, young and unscarred, and from them Bofur and Bombur would be eventually born.

"They're ready for you, my Lord." The dwarf lad called out tremulously, the bare wisps of a beard beginning to sprout from a freckled chin. Holding open the reed flaps to the village's central hut, the child stared at the prince from a far away land with unabashed curiosity.

It reminded Thorin of Fili and Kili when they had been little dwarflings, rolling about in the muck and so curious about everything in the wide world. The corners of Thorin's mouth twitched in fond nostalgia as he brushed past the redhaired boy, patting the lad's shoulder and dropping a copper bead into the child's palms.

The beam of pure delight warmed the frigid depths of Thorin's heart. The bead was simply a worthless trinket, and cost him nothing to give. Yet it was crafted from a prince's hands, and to an innocent dwarfling likely something worthy of story and song.

The reeds rustled against his back as he entered the hut fully, and with square shoulders and a stern mien Thorin strode forth to gaze intimidatingly upon the trio of wrinkled dwarves. Two had the milk pale filmy eyes of miners gone near blind in the dark depths, plumping for riches, while the third was a dam with clear eyes and a suspicious glare.

"I see the youthful are ever impatient." Ursa was the youngest of the three, with threads of black run through her white braids and beard. The jeweller was the grandmother of the three Broadbeams that had once given them their loyalty when even his own people would not follow him into dragonfire. She was the only member of the village elders that had still been alive a decade hence when Thorin led the shattered remnants of his people from Azanulbizar in search of a new home, and was a fierce ally during the early years of their delving.

Thorin merely had to wheedle his way into her favour a second time, and he had no doubt the force of her personality would overrule her two compatriots.

"It is not youth that drives me to impatience, Kargûna." Thorin rumbled, folding his arms behind his back. In this time, he was not a king, and nor did he have a starving refugee army at his back. Agreement would have to be argued more honestly, without the subtle hint of this-is-a-mere-courtesy that had hung like a pall over his the discussion he'd had with her in his first life. "But rather my people brought low, and the hunger that carves into the faces of those whom I hold dear."

If she was surprised at the respectful title, Ursa gave no sign of it. The dwarrowdam's dark eyes were distant as she stared into the misty past, and Thorin knew he had struck a chord. Perhaps it had been a husband, or a sister, or a child that had been lost to starvation and poverty. He knew not. But loss was a common tongue, and did much to bridge the gulf that lay between them.

"I have a letter in my father's hand that may be of interest to you." Handing over the slightly crinkled envelop, Thorin observed in silence as she broke it open and skimmed through it. Blinking when the dam gave a slight sneer and shoved it off towards her nearest fellow, the prince tilted his head in question as she turned her glare back his way.

"So that is the way of it?" Ursa barked, stroking an impatient hand over her salt and pepper beard. "Good Noon, I heard you might have some nice shiny things. I'll send my son along to look at it, and if he's satisfied, prepare for our imminent arrival?"

Dipping his eyebrows in thought, Thorin's gaze followed his father's letter as it was passed to the third wrinkled elder. Thrain was a good warrior and a just ruler, but diplomacy was rarely a strength among dwarves. Especially the men – but years of exile and beggary had taught Thorin when to lay his stiff neck low. And at the moment, need called for it. "That was not my intent. While it is true that there are potential prospects here that might feed my people, and that I hope we might find shelter here, I come looking to form kinship, not to displace your people here."

"Yet that is hardly what your father suggests, Thorin son of Thrain. In fact, I see little choice in the matter for us, as you and yours will come whether we say yay or nay."

"I would report to my father that Ered Luin is a poor choice for settlement, if you asked it of me." Thorin bit out, a steely note entering his voice. "I do not flee despoilage to lead my kith and kin into becoming despoilers themselves."

"Words are wind."

"Shall I call my company to witness my vow? I am sure your village might be able to spare some dwarves as well to witness it. If my word became wind, all would know me for _abnâthukraf_ and _binarzâm_."

A snowy white brow rose. "Well."

Two pairs of rheumy eyes stared at Thorin, peering over the short space between them as if it were a far gap. "I don't think that should be necessary dear boy." The one on the furthest left soothed, patting his scraggly beard absently. "What exactly would you ask of us?"

Waving an arm towards the direction of the deep cobalt mountains that still sung a birth-song to his bones, Thorin shook his head. "Bluntly, where do you believe this is going? Your people are few, and many are grey. Your kin to the north ignore you through the hard winters, and you delve shallow shafts to struggle for a rough existence, unable to devote time or energy to find richer and deeper veins for fear of starving in the meantime."

Giving Ursa lidded look, Thorin threw his shoulders back and peered at them with a regal gaze. "Give me your blessing to bring the dwarves of Erebor here. Allow my kith to become your's, and allow your kith to become mine. We are diminished, but we remain many. We have not forgotten our arts. Our delvers and masons are skilled. These old mountains can yet become pillared halls of stone, touching the deep with precious veins and bright gems running through."

"Aye, and at what cost?"

"Your good will and your fealty."

"Fealty? Bah!" Ursa barked, tossing Thrain's letter in the fire with a snort. "Why would me and mine pledge our lives and hearts to an arrogant fart in the wind like that?" A crafty gleam entered her expression then, and she leaned forward earnestly. "Though I must admit, I like your spirit, boy. I would not be adverse to swearing to one such as that."

Struggling with the insult of his father, Thorin swiftly moved past to the more important issue she raised. "I would think that treason, Mistress Ursa." The prince pointed out quietly.

"Is it?" she replied archly. "Are you not your father's heir? It is hardly unheard of for sons of Durin's line to hold a title beyond 'prince'. Why, even in such a distant place as this I know of the Lord of the Iron Hills."

"Nain is not in the line of succession. Such a thing is expected of him. It would be seen from me as an attempt to seize power."

"Now that is enough." Ursa bit out, whipping out a dagger and slicing it across her palm. Red ran between the fingers of her clenched fist. "You have asked for our fealty and this is our choice. Take it as it is, or not at all. You will have no other offer from me."

Staring at the slow drip of crimson, Thorin drew in a slow breath and blew it out. "So be it." Blood splashed from his own palm, and the prince took her as both kin and vassal.  


* * *

"I still maintain that you were incredibly reckless, my lad."

"Balin." Thorin growled, quite at the end of his patience as he sloshed through the melting early spring snow. There had been more than enough lectures about his choice to accept the fealty of some few hundred Broadbeams in their shallow caves, and the prince had little desire to hear another now.

"Tis only the truth my friend." The older dwarf mused, shaking his head at the wetness of his boots. Enedwaith was an empty grassland that would do well to feed and house Men. But it was a poor place for Durin's Folk, and Thorin's company hurried along the North-South road through the winter with their tidings of richer areas to dwell.

Tharbad was several days behind, the only settlement of any size by Men in the wild lands once ruled by Gondor. Thorin remembered it as an abandoned ruin, but the Fell Winter would not happen for another century, and until then some civilization could be found in those lands.

They'd spent the last of their coin on food and ale, warming their feet before the fire and putting nourishment in their bellies before their stern princeling drove them further on. Few complain, though the road was wet and hard. They'd been parted from their kin for nearly a year, and the desire to be reunited burned in more than one dwarf.

Turning east off the travelling road and into the hilly country of Dunland was even harder, as there were no winter travellers to partially clear the route, and the going was rough and uneven. More than once the company was forced to backtrack around impassible stone cliffsides or sudden unseen drops.

"I wouldn't worry so much Thorin." Balin puffed out, reassuring his cousin. "They have been settled for months, and would have enough to trade in goods and skill to keep them fed well enough for the winter." The grey-haired dwarf forced his mind away from the disturbing thought that his pregnant mother may have lost the babe. But the dam was only newly pregnant, as the ravens brought the news, and healthy enough.

"It is not so much that I worry, old friend." Thorin rumbled absently as he shoved past another snow drift. "But rather than I long to see my brother and sister once more. To hear their voices. To speak to amad and adad. Even to grandfather."

It was little more than the truth, for the prince admitted that if he arrived to find something had happened to Dis or Frerin in his absence, that none could stop him from biting off his own tongue and choking to death on his blood.

Thorin would face the dragon, and the journey, and grit his teeth over having to face elf lords and infuriating wizards to protect their smiles as many deaths as it took. One day he would be unable to protect their innocence. But Thorin would not surrender that fight while they were still children.

Balin hummed in thought, rolling his eyes when they encountered another dead end bluff. "So about those Broadbeams, my lad."

"Balin. Shut up!"

* * *

Dis was curled up in a warm huddle of blankets with her brother when the horn sounded. The long and mournful wail curled through the air, reverberating it's familiar song to every dwarf that had lived for an age. With a brief scrabble as Frerin and Dis attempted to throw the fur pelts off and only succeeded in tangled themselves further, the blonde girl wiggled out of the tangled sheets and padded off at a run.

Barefoot and shivering in the chill of the night, she burst from the tent her family shared and blinked away the sudden night blindness caused by the roaring flames of the night watch's bonfire. Warmth settled onto her shoulder when Frerin laid a cautious hand there, the two blonde siblings peering at the shadows in hope.

Fat white flakes were tumbling down. One of those late season snows as the last grips of winter struck petulantly over the land. Both of Thrain's younger children had despaired at the sight, warned by their mother that the weather may delay their brother's return. The months apart had been painful, and anger simmered within them at Thorin's perceived abandonment. Yet such was their anticipation of his coming that they had privately agreed to lay aside all grievances if simply their brother would return to them, as the thought of misfortune lengthening their separation was most grievous.

And if Thorin had failed to show at the promised date, as delivered by the ravens, then they would both make sure the elder prince most dearly regretted leaving them behind.

Their brother did not fail to come.

It was their mother's glad cry that alerted Dis, causing the blonde princess to swivel her face about to the far side of the bonfire's circle of light.

He stepped in from the West, shadow parting about his burly form.

There was a stain of old mud about his royal blue tunic, and the steel of his belt had begun to show hints of wear, shining dully in the firelight rather than gleaming as newly polished adornments were meant to. Snow collecting in his beard and hair, staining the midnight black strands with streaks of white and adding decades of silver to match the new tiredness about Thorin's eyes.

When Dis collided with him, Thorin huffed at the force of it, swinging his only sister up into his arms and smiling. The happiness softened the grim countenance Thorin had dawned since the day Smaug took the mountain. "Dis." He murmured, stroking the mussed golden snarls of her waist length hair. "Nun'el".

Frerin was not far behind. Thrain's second son had dark circles under his eyes, speaking of tired marches and long nights and worrying over the fate of their people. Pressing against Dis from behind, Frerin wrapped the dwarf girl between the forms of her brothers while the blonde dwarf grasped Thorin's biceps with bruising force. "Nuddel." The younger prince croaked to the elder, and had his address returned.

Several of the dwarrow averted their eyes from the emotional display. Such things were held to the utmost privacy amongst their people, and felt fit only to be witness by the closest of family or friends. Balin was consider as both, and the grey-haired dwarf blinked wet eyes as he looked on at the siblings' reunion. Because of how close the Fundinul was to Thorin and the royal family, Balin was well aware of the reality that distanced the royal children from their parents.

Thrain's duties were many when Erebor had stood strong, and Fris' duties were only slightly less. None could begrudge them their time devoted to serving their people, and their children understood the needed commitment without bitterness. But that distance also meant that when it came to raising Dis and Frerin, decisions about their welfare and their need for family affection were referred to Thorin more often than not.

The fall of Erebor both increased and lessened Thrain's duties, and Fris was with her children more often than not. But neither of Dis' or Frerin's parents were Thorin. It was not Thrain that taught Frerin how to hold a blade. It was not Fris that sung lullabies to Dis when the child failed to sleep. Thorin was both parent and brother, and his parting had been the most bitter of losses.

Pressing a comforting hand over Dis' head as the young girl sobbed into his travel stained jerkin ("Nuddel, Nuddel!") Thorin met Frerin's forehead with his own in a soft familial butt before turning to nod to his mother. The elder princess wasted no time joining the warm huddle by the fire. In the morning they would all be princes and princesses, and thus properly distant. But for the moment, they were family reunited after a long sundering, with little more than the words of ravens between them.

When Thrain barrelled out of the shadow and latched onto the knot of parent and child, Fris knew she would have no disagreement with her husband over the matter.

It was Thorin that eventually pulled away and shuffled them back to their tent, reassuring his siblings and parents that he was warm and alive with recurrent touches and the low growl of his voice. They fell into a tangle of furs and limbs, over clothing long since pulled aside to allow for the family to simply feel the warmth of skin on skin.

Fris held her children close at last, all three alive and fed and well. The princess swore to herself, as she had sworn the day Thorin had taken it upon himself to depart, that their family would not be so easily sundered again.

Thrain touched the heads of his wife and children, secure in their presence and considering himself supremely blessed that he truly loved his spouse and children rather than considering them mere duty, and that they were there.

Frerin laid between the strong and steadfast warmth of his father and brother, and nearly wept with the relief of it. That he could stop pretending strength, pretending not to be afraid or miss his brother when the world was closing in.

Dis snuggled up to the great beat of Thorin's heart and wept that their separation had come to an end. Things would turn out well – they must – now that her family was at last whole.

Thorin tangled in the middle, and warmth bloomed in his heart. Whomever or whatever had given him this chance if it were honest, had his thanks first, last, and most of all. No longer would he have to bury his mother at the roadside in a ramshackle scavenged cairn of stone. No longer would he look back the flowing years at his brother dead too young with steel in the longs and orc filth mingled at the Dimrill Dale. No longer would his father disappear, to hand down heirlooms after decades of torture and madness in a shadowed hole. No longer would he need witness his sister grow old and long before her time, with silver in her hair and sorrow in her eyes.

They were whole, and they were strong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (AN): This was about 3200 words. I originally planned it to be longer actually, since covering the fallout from the oath was originally planned. But I liked the ending, so I figured I could shunt it off to the next chapter.
> 
> On where exactly Nogrod and Belegost are, and succeeding settlements: After measuring the maps of pre and post War of Wrath, I discovered that both Nogrod and Belegost are actually on the bottom of the Gulf of Lhun. After the war, most fled to Khazad-dum. Yet some remained. So then I asked myself how Thorin could built 'peace and plenty' if there were communities already existing and mining and selling all the ore for generations? So I decided that any refugees that didn't flee departed to the northern half of the range, leaving the south spur untouched save by enterprising dwarves. This would later become the domain of Thorin's Halls, where they could be peaceful and fed, if not fabulously wealthy.
> 
> On why the settlement swore to Thorin rather than Thrain: Because he impressed them. The first time they had little choice, but the second time they had a choice. Not to shit on Thrain or anything, but I can't imagine any dwarf as master diplomat. Thorin has some personal charisma though, and has learned to swallow pride, so he is better than Thrain or Thror would be. Given this, the settlement had a choice. Regardless of Thorin's word (though he impressed them with the offer of an oath) they expected the dwarves of Erebor to come. So they swore to follow the lord they liked best of that line. Which may cause problems. Speaking of which. I need a name for the settlement beyond "Thorin's Halls". Any suggestions?
> 
> Pairings: Is so up in the air at the moment. I've worked out a complete Bagginshield plot line in my head, and have done more than consider a ThorinxElf plot. Hell, even the ThorinxRanger plot is starting to nibble. So many choices, but there can be only one ;-;. The whole elf thing aligns with the overall purpose of why exactly Thorin is in this loop, but the Bagginshield thing touches more on what I've come to associate with Thorin's character.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own anything in Tolkien's Legendarium, and make no profit writing fanfiction about it.

* * *

_"O! Wanderers in the shadowed land, despair not!"_

* * *

Fundin twisted his gnarled hands in the corner of his vision as Thorin took in the slowly reddening features of his father's face. Puce sprung up unpleasantly around the thick tattoos bolded on Thrain's forehead. A fierce but ineffectual desire to be almost anywhere else sprung up in Thorin, but the younger prince stood his ground.

"So let me be sure I have this right." The Crown Prince growled out, ignoring the look of censure Thror gave him. "You decided that rather than simply ignore the demands of these mud diggers, you took it upon yourself to just create your own little clan?"

Balin winced when Thorin responded with only a bald affirmative.

"Mahal's balls Thorin!" Thrain exploded, his deep voice echoing in the squat stone building that served as their council chamber. "Do you not think? What rocks are between your ears boy? Never mind that you decided to call a huddle of dirt grubbers that weren't even of our folk kin, are you trying to incite a war?"

Thinning his lips with trademark stubbornness, Thorin stared over Thrain's shoulder with all the composure of a marble statue. "It was a matter of honour. There are riches in those mountains that will never be found in these dusty old hills, and the only way to make peace with those who lived there already was to call them kin. We did not flee a dragon to become dragons ourselves, adad."

Thrain's tone was acidic. "Oh, aye. At least when the ground turns to mush with the blood of our people you can tell yourself that you were honourable enough to bow down when you didn't even need to. Did you think they would run away or live in exile when we came? At most, they would be bitter for half a decade until they saw how much better off they were once we arrived."

"Don't assume that everyone is so easy to bribe." Thorin sighed, remembering long drawn silences and the slowly receding bitterness of the Broadbeams he'd ruled by his own arrogance. It had taken nearly a century for their anger to properly cool and the edges to fade from their long memories. Though once it had those 'dirt grubbers' had proved more loyal at times than his own kinsmen.

"It's not about bribes Thorin." Fundin fretted, stroking the long white of his beard. "Our people are wandering, hungry, and homeless. They're only kept together through the unity of the ones leading them. How do you think it's going to look to them when you come back from wandering far with four hundred clansmen sworn to your name?"

Squeezing Thorin's bicep, Balin gave a resigned shake of his head. "Don't even try to deny it lad. It'll look like you're gathering supporters of your own so you can lead a coup. And there are those young hotheads that would flock to such a thing. Even if you're second in line, you're young and still adventurous. There could be talk."

"Not that anyone here would suspect you of disloyalty." Fundin interjected hastily, dark eyes gleaming in the low firelight. "But you have to know how it looks."

Shrugging tiredly, Thorin fixed a weary gaze on his father. "What would you have me do then? It is done and cannot be undone, lest all know me as one to shirk the bonds of kin easily. Shall I return and begin to lay down halls of my own, and leave you all behind?"

"There is always bandûn, if you wish to keep it from getting any further." The shine in Thror's eyes was shrewd and clear, and all in the room were glad to see it. There was no tremble in the King's hands, and the rumble of his voice was smooth and measured. Here was Thror of old, that once led a besieged folk from the dominion of cold drakes and founded the richest dwarf kingdom in generations.

Thrain frowned dubiously. "Our people haven't been fractured enough for that in hundreds of years. Thorin is my son, not some warlord swearing fealty for guarantee of autonomy and position. "

"It would work." Thror insisted, before giving an amused smirk to Thorin. "Assuming of course, that you refrain from gathering more vassals of your own."

To be a bandûn was to be the head of an independent family or clan. In the early days of their race, before the dwarves were properly organized, they existed as scattered hundreds of tiny fiefdoms and roving bands. As the strength of some lords grew, they were able to force others to submit to their rule in exchange for some few concessions. A voice in council, equal rights for their people, and the right to be known as bandûn until they passed into the Halls of Waiting.

"I think I can handle that much." Thorin agreed dryly. If his future was anything like the one he'd already lived, there was little chance he would be corralled into a similar situation. They would spend peaceful and plenty years in the Blue Mountains, and Ursa's folk were the only ones he would need to interact with for decades in such a capacity.

Even if Thorin was seeking fealty from other dwarf clans or realms, Ursa's insistence on personal loyalty to Thorin rather than to his house was queer and provincial by the standards of their race. It was far more likely that any others would simply swear to whomever the current King was, regardless of personal fondness. And even if another clan opted for the personal loyalty, the years in between incidences would still wagging tongues.

"Then we are agreed." Thror decided genially, though the glance he spared for Thrain was stern. If the King himself could pass over the insult Ursa's refusal to swear had been, the Crown Prince had no recourse to hold onto anger. "Try and come up with a better name than Deathless, will you?"

Balin laughed while Thorin returned with a half-hearted glare. "It's a good blade, even the masters said so."

Thrain patted Thorin's shoulder with an indulgent smirk. "Of course it is. Deathless is a fine blade, even if the name is just a touch ostentatious."

"I was seventeen! Cut me some slack!"

* * *

Steel shone enticingly, its mirror sheen reflecting the light of the sun in a moonpale gleam. Rippling engravings curved along the flat of the blade, crowned hither and thither with pointed stars. Frerin grinned and ran an appreciative nail along the burnished side.

"What are you doing?"

Dis squeaked and shoved Thorin's sword away, only to flush when it feel from the table and clattered to the dirt with a crash.

Sighing with fond exasperation, their elder brother scooped the sword up and slid it back into its sheath. Steel slide home with nary a hiss, and blue eyes scrutinized the guilty looking pair suspiciously.

Frerin rallied a moment later "We were just taking a look. We didn't hurt anything, honestly!" Grinning sheepishly, the blonde prince scratched the back of his head.

Running a hand over his face, Thorin's lips twitched into a small smirk. "By Mahal, the two of you are as curious as weed-eaters. Should I be checking your ears from now on?"

"Bite your tongue!"

Thorin swept into a mocking courtly bow, pressing his lips to the back of his sister's tiny hand. "As my lady commands." The prince intoned gravely, the solemnity of his features spoiled by the quick wink he gave.

"Enough of that." Frerin snorted, reaching a greedy hand towards Thorin's new sword and scowling when his older brother delivered a stinging smack to his palm. "Tell us about your new sword. Where did you get it? Where is it from? What did you name it?"

Ruffling Dis' blonde strands beneath thick fingers, Thorin ignored the outraged squeal his sister made before setting the blade on the table with tangible reverence. "This is Orcrist, the Goblin-Cleaver. It was forged by the Noldor of Gondolin in the Elder Days."

Frerin nudged Thorin's side with an elbow. "To think I'd live to see the day my brother decides to run about with a tree shagger's sword." The prince bemoaned, pulling at his blonde braids in mock despair.

"I couldn't wish for a finer blade." Thorin defended, laying fond fingers on Orcrist and returning the ancient sword to its sheath. "It never rusts or dulls, cuts through iron like butter, and shines a warning light when orc filth are near. Such a strange coincidence to find it in an abandoned robber's hole in the Ettenmoors." He finished in a distant wondering tone as he belted Orcrist in its place over his back.

An intent expression crossed Thorin's face while he stared unnervingly at Frerin. Nodding once to himself, the prince ignored his siblings bafflement as he fled the room and returned in short order with another blade. "I have something for you." He explained offhandedly, before shoving his old sword into Frerin's incredulous hands.

"You're giving me Deathless?"

Dis stared at the angular blade in Frerin's clutches before scowling back at Thorin. "Where's mine?" the dwarf girl burbled petulantly, crossing her arms.

Beard twitching under the effort to contain his fond amusement, Thorin cupped his sister's cheek with a gentle hand. "I'd say you're still too young for your own sword yet, mizim. If you still want one when you're older, or if you decide you want something different, I'll make one for you too."

"Are you sure you want to give me Deathless?" Frerin interrupted, still staring down at his brother's old sword. "It was your masterwork. Shouldn't you hold onto it for sentimental value at least?"

"And why would I leave it to gather dust on the mantel when it could be seeing use in your hands?" the dark haired prince asked rhetorically. "I'm not so attached to it that I'd rather keep it than have you use it to defend your life. Just make sure that you don't cut your foot off when practicing with it."

Shaking his head, Frerin rolled his eyes and belted Deathless to his hip with experienced hands "Yeah, yeah, amad. I have been practicing my bladework for a few years you know. No need to get your knickers in a twist."

"If this rock-head gets Deathless, I want two swords. And a bow." Dis declared imperiously.

Neither sibling understood Thorin's sudden bark of laughter. "As you say, mizim."

* * *

"We warned ya about the names, laddie. We warned ya!"

"It's not so bad, Balin. Truly."

"'Not so bad'?" Balin sputtered. "By my beard, Thorin, you still name things like you're Dis' age. Bandûn'arisi? Really? "

Crossing his arms over his chest, Thorin favoured Balin with a sullen face. "It seemed appropriate at the time." And it was appropriate. It was hardly his fault that so few dwarves could understand the brilliant elegance of his naming schemes. Just like the constant complains about his sense of direction.

Traitors, the lot of them.

"Mahal have mercy, my son has rocks for brains."

Even his mother.

Fris could barely contain an open display of wry amusement, choosing instead to run fingers through her luxurious beard with jerky movements. "Thorin, I love you, but you have a namesense that not even a mother could love. Do be a dear and be sure that once you find your one that she selects the true names for your children?"

"There's nothing wrong with sparks." Thorin defended valiantly, one hand coming up to trace his new engraved chain of office. "It fits the character of the people that chose to follow me perfectly well." Truly, it did. Ursa was a spitfire of the highest order, and her descendants that would eventually follow him on their quest to reclaim Erebor had their own burning coals in their hearts.

Bofur had been a warm hearthfire, crackling merrily and spreading a constant sense of good cheer to those down in the depths of despair with a smile and song. Bifur had been a defiant candle, chasing the shadow of fear away for children with exquisitely carved toys. Bombur had been simmering coals, patiently lifting flagging hearts with warm bread and a mug of tea.

Thorin was struck by a sudden fierce sense of longing for his dwarves. Balin was by his side, and he was ever grateful to see his mother smiling rather than weeping or staring into the distance with dead eyes. But it was not the same as having enduring hearts standing at his back, loyal beyond what any king had the right to truly expect.

A warm hand settled on his cheek, pulling Thorin's face to the side so Fris could look at him eye to eye. His mother smiled thinly, wetness shining in her cerulean orbs. "You think we don't notice, Thorin, but we do. That coldness. That sharpness. Tell me how to reach you, my kundanud."

Sucking in a breath, Thorin settled a warm grip over Fris' biceps. "There's nothing to be done, amad. It is simply Smaug, and the suffering of our folk. I am here. I do not need to be reached."

It was a lie, and by the bitter twist of Fris' lips, she knew it. The princess had seen dozens or even hundreds of dwarves following the Fall of Erebor. They were angered, and despairing, and driven to revenge. But they weren't aged years beyond knowing. They weren't so irrevocably desolate.

"As you say." Fris agreed in a neutral tone. She wouldn't strike out at him for keeping his secrets, or add to his pain by rejecting him. She was his mother, for all duty would at times separate them. And she would wait to the end of the world if needed for her son.

Thorin for his part only drew her into a tight hug, rubbing his mother's back with a warm hand and smirking cynically. For what could he say? 'Oh mother, but I have died and lived half a hundred times. Won't you help me from here?'

All would think him mad, and the only recourse Thorin would have from there would be another suicide to change his choices and erase that mistake.

* * *

Camp broke when snow retreated and yellow grass lay bare beneath the sun. Sucking in the damp Spring air, Thorin cast a look over his shoulder at the ramshackle collection of partly finished stone houses that Durin's Folk had begun to build in their exile and smiled.

It was not a kind smile, or a happy one. It was a sharp edged twist of the lips, mingled with bitter amusement as Thorin weighed the consequences of his choices. The first life he had lived had been a curving road to the barren hills of the Dunlendings, years wandering the villages of men in barren Enedwaith, rural Rohan, and decaying Gondor to sell his smithcraft and return with what coin he could find to feed his family.

Once, Durin's Folk had resigned themselves to being homeless. They built their homes out of slabs pulled from meagre cliff faces in an effort to feel encased in stone – as a dwarf truly needed to in order to feel safe and protected. Thorin had remained silent and faithful, trusting in the wisdom of his father and grandfather to lead the dwarves of Erebor.

All his silence had purchased was two decades of stringent hunger, waging Dis and Frerin grow on the keen edge of scarcity and smuggling them his own rations when he could spare them. Thorin had bowed his head and kept his peace, purchasing impoverished dirt and the bloody fields of Azanulbizar.

But here was something different. Speaking up and using his tongue rather than his obedience. There were riches to be found in Ered Luin – warmth and safety and comfort. Not as rich as Erebor, or Khazad-dum had been in the dawn of the world, but hopefully enough gold and crystal to sooth Thror's gold madness. Enough glitter that maybe his poor, mad grandfather would rather take a pickaxe to stone and dig for gold than command a decade of warfare in dark tunnels for a mirage of glory.

Such a thing he would spare Frerin from, if he could. Thorin had no desire to burn his brother's body by Khalad-zaram again, the death count so high they could not even afford proper stone burials for their kin. He didn't want to see the wetness in Balin's eyes when some sound or word brought back recollection of blood and steel beneath the mountains. He would spare Dwalin, flamboyant and determined boy he had been, from waking screaming in the night from crimson nightmares. And Dain, his steadfast cousin that was of the same age at the moment as little Dis, need not lose his father to the knives of orc filth in the night.

Thror walked at the head of the line, head back and proud, eyes sharp and clear, every inch the king that rebuilt Erebor. His people followed behind him, bent with hunger and the labors of their destitution, but proud and unbroken. Thrain walked by his side, tattooed brow fierce and unyielding as the dwarves of Erebor wound their way through barren moor and soggy swamp.

Thorin walked behind them, with his little sister wiggling in the circle of his arms and his younger brother following at his heels. The son of Thrain carried about his person an aura of far less ceremony and pomp. Dirt stained the hem of his cloak, and his face alternated between fierce brooding and rare laughter.

Yet there was something in the air about him that was more quietly regal than his forebears. A silent and unintentional majesty that endeared him in the hearts of many far more than the austere distance the other royals cultivated. _'Look here.'_ They whispered here and there. _'Here is the prince that took the westward road to bring us a new home.'_ They watched him, studying the strange elf blade on his back and the queer shortness of his beard.

They watched, and began to hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bandûn – Khuzdul; "head-man". A title stemming from the early days of the dwarves, when they were far more fractured and tribal. The chief of a tribe or clan. Non-genealogical, as chiefs were chosen based on merit and acclamation rather than lineage. Preserved in later realms as a nonhereditary title for independent warlords that swore fealty to Kings or Lords. Certain rights and privileges were assigned to Bandûn, as they had the responsibility of integrating their formerly independent people with the whole.
> 
> Bandûn'arisi – Khuzdul; "head-man Spark", "Chief Spark". Every Bandûn has both the title and his "regnal name", as it were. Thorin, in his infamous ability to choose uninspired names, chose "Spark", for reasons I elaborated on in the text itself.
> 
> Kundanud – Khuzdul; "Tiny Wolf". A nickname Fris has for Thorin.
> 
> Mizim - Khuzdul; "Jewel". Can be used as a term of endearment.
> 
> Deathless and Masterworks: I touched on Deathless and its origins here. Also, does anyone agree with me that naming your sword that is grandiose as hell and grounds for saying "Boy, leave the naming things to other people"? Since he has Orcrist, he doesn't need to keep it, and he'd rather give it to Frerin since it is a well-wrought blade.
> 
> Masterwork can refer to two things – one of which is the culmination of a smith's skill and the like which he will never make again (i.e Feanor and the Silmarills). Or in the case of Deathless, a work made for the sake of evaluation and admission into a guild at the rank of Master. So Thorin holds Master title in the now defunct Smith's Guild of Erebor.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own anything in the Tolkien Legendarium, and make no profit writing about it.

* * *

_"Beneath the mountains music woke..."_

* * *

Dis had cried when Thorin set her down, his sister's bare feet settling over the rich blue stone of Ered Luin. Thorin had merely smiled enigmatically, ruffling her blonde strands and allowing her to struggle to come to terms with the high and clear song of birthplace and awakening. There was no dwarf alive that could not be moved by the rarest and purest note stone would ever sing.

There was little time for reminiscing however. Autumn was rolling down from the North and there had been no shelter for the winter for Erebor's teeming thousands. Which brought Thorin to the shallow mines, pickaxe in hand and Frerin at his side, hammering chips of rock away under the steely supervision of an experienced miner.

Sweat ran down Thorin's back, arms burning as the prince threw his back into the blows. Dwarven mining was not nearly so wasteful as the diggings of Men. Rock was cleared away in blocks, rough squares carved out and shuffled to carts and rolled out to the grassy plains. From there prospectors would look over the blocks, searching for hint or precious gems or metal. If any were found, they would assess the origin tunnel for veins of ore. If not, the blocks would be passed onto mason who would sand the stone down into uniform bricks to be used for building.

Durin's Folk were industrious, and when all the thought of that people were bent on quarry and building they could proceed at a rate that far exceeded even the dreams of any other race. And for what these caves represented, and what they would represent, Thorin could accept no less. Surety. Refuge. Safety. Protection.

It had taken many hours, butting heads with his Father and Fundin, and needling Thror when the King was not gold mad. The tunnels they were delving into the blue flesh of the mountains were not stocks for war, or for the edification of the royal family, or to assuage the wounded pride lost in Erebor.

Beriarond. Thorin had insisted through the day and night. Khazad-filtîn. These caves were caves of protection. A refuge for all of Mahal's scattered and beat down children. Not forges for the machine of war. Not a launching point for bleeding battlefields and screaming steel.

It had taken Fris, with heavy blue eyes and laying a hand on Thrain's for his father to subside. They'd spoken, hushed outside with harsh punctuations of Khuzdul, and when the Crown Prince returned he'd thrown his weight fully behind his eldest son's proposal.

Thorin had asked his mother what words she'd said to her husband to change his mind. The princess had only looked into the glazed distance and assured him she had no desire to raise her children in a realm arming for war and dragonfire.

Fundin had caved shortly after. When Thror's mind wandered back to sharpness, the old king had merely laughed at the ingenuity of dwarven women before accepting his 'loss' with grace.

Another chip, another stone.

One day these shallow tunnels would be magnificent halls, and filled with the laughter of children and the contentment of folk well done by. It was only the first of many things Thorin owed his people for his shameful weaknesses.

* * *

Autumn ran into Winter, and the refugee dwarves of Erebor retreated into the mountains. Stone was yet rough-hewn, entire families squeezing into cramped caves as they struggled to find space to survive in. No dwarf could feel truly safe without the warmth of the earth enclosing and sheltering him, and Thorin couldn't quite stamp out the faint tingle of pride in his toes that he had managed this.

How many decades of suffering in the cold, wandering lost and alone in the marshy fields and under the merciless skies had he saved his people from? How many children would be born alive, their mothers at least fed in their pregnancies? How many would survive and thrive, instead of freezing in the night as snow pressed in?

Many, Thorin knew. Dozens. Hundreds perhaps. But any sense of pride or accomplishment was almost entirely suppressed by shame. For the other side of the coin was how many deaths had he caused? How many dozens or hundreds of deaths had come about in his first life through his own silence and stubbornness?

It bent the prince low, lending strength to his hammer blows at the forge. Smithing had always been a craft Thorin had particular aptitude at, and when hands could be spared from the constant mining of new halls and new rooms beneath the earth, his hand been first amongst them.

There was a forgetfulness in smithing. Pouring one's heart and despair into the song of heat and hammer and metal, until all the passion and pain had drained away light poison in the night. Thorin was bound to the anvil, in all his lives. For it was only there that he could find succor from the hounding guilt that pounded between his ears.

Frerin was worried. Dis wondered if he had grown to hate their company. Fris only had knowing eyes, and Thrain was torn between worry and pride at his devotion to helping his people. But what could he say to them? 'My apologies. I work the anvil from dawn to dusk so I can avoid thinking about Frerin's burning corpse. It drowns out the death cries of my sister sons. It quiets the dark imagination of my father's suffering in a black pit. My mother yet worries at me instead of laying beneath a ramshackle cairn, her skirts still bloodied and torn with the evidence of her violation.'

Out there was the world, with all the stress pressing in on the frayed edges of Thorin's memories and sending shocks through his corpse heart. In here was the numb beat of production, red iron taking shape beneath his hands.

Hammer rises. Hammer falls.

Turning over the slab of molton metal, Thorin smiled in grim satisfaction at the shape that was coming out from beneath his hammer. Another sword, edges hungering for the blood of orc filth and vengeance.

It was almost disquieting – that for all his practice at making nails and horseshoes and latches, the real beauty of his craft emerged when carving out weapons of war.

No matter. Thrain would hardly criticize his choice, and the Dunedain were always willing to buy good dwarven steel.

Scowling in thought, Thorin twisted the focus of his strokes to lengthen the thick short blade into a longer thinner one appropriate for the hands of men. The dwarves of Erebor were yet idle, all their energy and thought bent on carving a new home from stone. But the Rangers of the North still wandered freely, patrolling the roads and putting servants of the shadow to the blade.

It was a poor satisfaction compared to hewing goblin necks himself, but it was far better than crafting a chain to lead livestock with. And as far as Men went, the Dunedain were a tolerable sort. They always paid on time, conducted their business with cool respect, and made no absurd requests.

"So this is where you've been hiding?"

Setting the yet-unsharpened longsword aside for its long cooling and annealing, Thorin gave a flat stare to the white-bearded dwarrowdam by the door.

Ursa gave a pugnacious scowl before flouncing over to seize Thorin's ear. Ignoring the dwarf's shocked shout, the age dam twisted and pulled, forcing Thorin to follow along hunched over as she led him back out into the sun.

"You men are all the same." She growled, releasing Thorin's ear and setting her hands over her hips. "Stubborn rock heads with less sense than a drunk mule!" Huffing at the raised eyebrow Thorin gave, Ursa turned to stare out over the snowy countryside.

"You need to get out of the forge some time, boy. Rinse that sweat off you and go for a walk. See some people. Make something of your life."

Rolling his eyes, Thorin crossed his arms over his chest. "Yes, amad." By the Maker, he could never understand why productive solitude bothered people so much. He never skipped his meals, laid in bed the appropriate number of hours, and never broke out into depressed haranguing.

"None of your cheek. Just because you're the Bandûn doesn't mean I can't knock you down a peg or three. " Dark eyes danced with amused vexation as the elderly dwarrowdam glanced at him from the corner of his vision. "Now run along. I'm sure my grandson can find something that'll put a smile on that dour face of your's. Bifur's a good sort for that."

Yes, Bifur was a good sort indeed. The mere thought of meeting another one of his Company softened the hard lines around Thorin's eyes. At times he found it hard to hold back his desire for his Company.

Balin was really the only one he could claim to really know in this life, and he could hardly hover about the other dwarf like a needy child day in and day out. Dori was young, barely bearded and a dwarf from Dale rather than Erebor. There was no excuse to meet him either, save their distant maternal kinship.

A question to think on for another day.

* * *

Thorin's eyes kept drifting to Bifur's bare forehead.

Mahal's balls it was odd to see the other dwarf without the axe fragment embedded in the dome of his head. Thorin had known Bifur for longer than a century. The Broadbeam had been a veteran of the War of Dwarves and Orcs, the same as Thorin himself, and they'd first met in the deep shadows beneath the peak of Methedras.

Bifur had the axe wound even then.

To see the other dwarf axe-less. To hear him chatter excitedly in the Common Tongue about the recent marriage of his Uncle and new Aunt. To not have to excuse Bifur's long stunted silences in between burst of stuttered Ancient Khuzdul, and accept the nervous twitch of his comrade's hands was jarring. Thorin had no idea how to deal with it besides smile into his mug and encourage the other dwarf to tell him more stories about uncle Donur.

(And swear to himself later that night, in the dusty shadows between dusk and dawn that he would keep his comrade close. That he'd never sentence Bifur to a life with a wandering mind. That Thorin, no matter how many lives and deaths he would be forced to live, would prevent the head wound. Thorin would never reward Bifur's loyalty and friendship with negligence and preventable injury.)

Swirling his tankard in circles, Thorin watched the gold mead before nudging Bifur with his elbow. Waiting for the Broadbeam's attention to turn away from the ale he was guzzling, Thorin scanned the dim stone walls of the makeshift tavern that had been carved into the mountains. "I have half a mind to lead a trade expedition in the coming summer. Would that be of interest to you?"

Wiping the soak of alcohol from his wiry beard, Bifur gave a short burp before fixing bleary eyes on the prince. "Whatever sharpens your pick, Bandûn. Not sure I get the point of it though. Things here have turned out pretty decent since you Erebor folk showed up."

Thorin restrained the instinctive impatient frown his features wanted to twist into. He was struggling to be better – to do better by the dwarrow who had followed him to the very end. And that meant understanding that the Bifur he was speaking to wasn't neigh two centuries, with a shrewd business mind when the axe didn't send the dwarf's thoughts wandering.

The Bifur sitting beside him was newly twenty winters, bright eyed and innocent, grown up among a small people. For an isolated clan that lived hand-to-mouth for Ages, the rough and unfinished halls that the dwarves of Erebor had carved were possibly near to Mahal's own. They had learned through generations to be simple and generous, with little concern for much beyond a good song and happy home. Silver speckled chambers likely didn't even enter their collective imagination.

"Because our people may earn yet more. We were not meant to live in narrow tunnels and cramped cubbies, thankful for what we could scrounge to clothe our backs and fill our stomachs." Thorin began in a low tone, conciliatory and soft. But the memory of humiliation – starving and begging for scraps in the villages of men, selling their crafts and even their bodies for the meanest cut of meat – shot through him, his voice growing loud and full of passion.

"We are Mahal's children. His gifts to us are in our flesh and the works of our hands. Who amongst us has not been weaned with stories of the glory of Gabigathol? The deep blue of their mail? The fierce beasts they wrought in steel and wore for masks? Who among the Khazad can forget the valor of Azaghâl 'uddel, who even as he lay bleeding smote the Golden Worm with his death stroke?"

Thick fists clenched as Thorin fixed blazing sapphire eyes on Bifur. "Why should all the greatest works of our race be behind us? Khazad-dûm is languishing in shadow. Gundabad had been reduced to an orc pit. Erebor is a dragon's den. Shall we never look upon the soft golden glow in our polished stone, the sun itself twisted beneath the earth again? Will the light of the silver moon never stretch beneath our feet again? Will mithril stars never adorn our brows again? I cannot accept this. I will not. "

The air was thick with silence as Bifur gaped openly, and drawn by the quiet Thorin looked out to find every face in the little tavern turned towards him. Heat lit on the back of his neck in embarrassment as sudden toasts and applauds filled the night. "My apologies." Thorin grumbled into his mug, not even daring to look at his companion for the eve. "I was overwrought."

"So you were." Bifur agreed neutrally, a strange look in his face. As if he were truly seeing Thorin for the first time. "I see what you mean about not just being satisfied with what we have here. It's a bit odd to me, I suppose. But when you put it like that..."

A crooked grin curved Bifur's lips beneath the Broadbeam's wiry beard. "I think a little trip to the market doesn't seem so strange after all."

* * *

Dwalin was born in the Spring.

Cradling his distant cousin in his arms, Thorin struggled to reconcile the image in his mind of the fierce and tattooed warrior he had known with the softly snoring babe in his arms. It had been many, many years since his kinsman had been born, and Thorin had forgotten that in both his first life and his current one that it had been him to first truly hold the child.

Nàl had died in the birthing bed again, and grief hung heavy on the House of Fundin. Father and eldest son were sequestered in their grief, abandoning the secondborn babe to the attentions of his more distant relations. Thorin could faintly recall a fierce sense of indignation and disgust the first time it had happened. But he had grown old and weary, and more understanding of the grief of others.

Red faced and red haired, Dwalin's features were scrunched up into the grimace it seemed all children fresh from the wound possessed. Fili and Kili had been the same when they'd left the body of their mother.

Huddling the dwarfling's form close to his body, Thorin gazed down at Dwalin in a mixture of anticipation and tenderness. "Ah my fierce little ushmar, you have a long way to go yet." Children were an uncomfortable subject for Thorin. He'd never had any of his own, never even met a female that he'd consider having sons and daughters of his own wife. But he craved them, like many of his less-than-fertile race.

Though probably for different reasons.

Amongst the Khazad, children were a rare blessing. With so few women born to them, and the difficulty those women had in conceiving, every child was an unexpected miracle. Some even felt that having sons to carry your line or daughters to cherish were a personal blessing from Mahal.

Thorin couldn't claim to understand the ways of the Valar, or how much personal influence they had in the workings of the lives of everyday dwarves. But he did understand children. When Fili had come into the world, he'd tasted hope and renewal on the back of his tongue. Kili's birth had been no different.

Even Dwalin's birth, as expected as it was, and the future he could see with old eyes stretched out for his kinsman, had the scent of anticipation.

"Can I look?"

Frerin's voice was barely more than a whisper, his younger blonde brother fidgeting at a respectful distance. There was a blend of grief and longing in the young dwarf's face, and Thorin remembered with a lurch that as old as Nàl's loss was to him, that wound would be fresh for his family. Dís stood behind Frerin, red eyed and staring at the ground.

Nodding silently, Thorin gestured the pair closer with a jerk of his chin. Silently amused when his siblings hesitated with an uncharacteristic caution, Thorin gave the pair a teasing wink and shuffled closer with his precious bundle.

Being around Frerin and Dís always made Thorin brush away the years. The adolescent and preserved innocence in their faces made Thorin himself feel young again. Less bowed under the weight of grief and loss. Smiles came easier, and he remembered how to laugh rather than give off a rusty chuckle.

"Say hello?" Thorin urged, lips twitching when Frerin replied with a wide-eyed doe look. Dís had far less reservation, and offered up a dainty forefinger for her infant cousin to sleepily wrap tiny hands about.

The jubilant beam that crossed his sister's face would have given any typical older brother pause. But Thorin had long since grown past the instinct to glare intimidatingly at any male dwarf that even breathed the same air as Dís. Víli had been the only male to ever catch his sister's eyes, and the fact that Fíli and Kíli had been born of that union mellowed Thorin of his desire to curtail any thoughts Dís had of children.

That didn't mean that he wouldn't give Víli a good traditional threatening when the time came, however.

* * *

"I wish you the best of luck, Thorin. I do."

Smiling for Balin's sake, Thorin took in the sight of his old friend carrying his younger brother (and Thorin's sworn sword) about in a sling. In the few months since his birth, Dwalin had been growing steady and strong without the periodic food shortages that had plagued them in the first life Thorin had lived. But like Thorin's first life, the babe's need for care and protection had brought Balin out of mourning for his lost mother.

"I will only be gone for a few months old friend." Thorin reassured, patting Orcrist where it hung strapped to his back. "These lands are notoriously gentle, and I doubt I will even need to draw steel once on our little vacation."

Snorting at the reduction of Beriarond's first trade mission to a prince's pleasure trip, Balin rolled his eyes beneath grey brows. "I wish you luck not because I think you'll need it to deal with orcs, my lad. I wish you all the luck Mahal can spare you, so that you don't cause us a war with your diplomacy."

Mock outrage filled his voice "Balin! I'll have you know that I did very well to build a friendship with the ravens, and even treated the Peredhil with some degree of politeness."

Turning his nose up, the older dwarf sighed theatrically. "Bribery is one thing my friend. But if you ever had a silver tongue, you and it parted ways long ago."

"Oh shut up." Heaving up onto his pony, Thorin tangled his fingers in the beast's thick grey mane before turning an expectant look on his oldest friend and closest advisor. "You will look after them, won't you?" There was little need to specify whom exactly the prince was referring to.

"Aye laddie. I will see it done as if they were my own." Balin returned seriously, mind already drifting to scheduling time to educate Frerin and Dís as he had Thorin in the elder prince's youth. "And I'll make sure your mother doesn't work herself to tears either." Unsaid was the grim reality that Thror and Thrain would have to put every moment they could spare into further directing the construction of their new underground city.

"My thanks."

Kicking the flanks of the pony, Thorin swept away into a slow trot to allow the ponderous wagons to follow. The prince set a sedate pace, both to avoid straining the ponies but also to give the dwarves following him time to ready themselves for their journey. Bifur was fluttering about nervously in the corner of his eye, the Broadbeam checking crate after crate to reassure that his precious toys hadn't been yet damaged.

Their journey was not a long one, for all its symbolic importance. Their route remained contained within Eriador, only crossing through Lindon, the Shire, and Bree before returning to their starting point with new trade contacts. Hopefully.

Thorin had insisted on going. Not only because he wanted to give his all to promote the growth and prosperity of the dwarves' new dwelling, but also because Thorin knew that he was the only royal that could go and not burn their bridges before they were even out of the gates.

For all his shrewdness, Thror was still too given to gold madness and mood swings to be relied upon to forge new relationships with neighboring rulers and encourage business. And for all his valor, Thrain was too arrogant and prone to grudges to be able to treat with the people that surrounding the refugee dwarves of Erebor. Frerin was too young, Fundin too steeped in grief, and Balin too busy holding his dimished family together. Neither was it their custom to send women, grown princess or royal girl child, out from safe havens if it could be helped.

There was only Thorin. He might be full of shame and weaknesses, his failures staining the insides of his eyelids when he slept. The prince was all too aware of his taciturn faults, his unreasonable grudges and barbaric hatreds. He was not a shrewd as Thror, or a valorous as Thrain, or as kind as Frís, or as gentle as Dís, or as bright as Frerin. But he was best suited at least to swallow his unwarranted self-importance and reach out to Elves, Men, and Hobbit alike.

So he'd spent months selecting each and every vendor to show their wares, as they were best suited in personality and product. Níbun son of Îbun, a glassblower out of Erebor that could shape the delicate shapes and twisting starlight colours the elves so loved, and whom Thorin hoped Círdan would welcome. Reliable Bifur, with his collection of fantastical toys and gentle disposition that would surely endear the dwarves to the Hobbits of the Shire. Thorin himself, who'd spent many hours in the forge to smith out weapons, armour, and simple tools for the men of Bree that were both affordable and of legendary dwarven quality.

There were others. Weavers that wrought delicate silks, spun with liquid copper that shone beneath the sun. Masons that could hawk shipments of hard stone and skill with building. Gravers that could chisel portraits of exquisite detail and flattering dimension. Tinkers that could reforge broken heirlooms and cheap spoon alike as if they were newly made.

Tossing his head back, Thorin fixed determined wolf eyes to the North. There was an element of excitement. Of expectation and even fear. Here was something he'd never actually had a chance to do before – by the time his people had settled in Ered Luin, the royals had been so diminished that neither could be spared for such missions. And before settlement, all had simply sold their skills as best they could alone. But here also was something new, something that would test his resolve to change and better himself and the lot of his people.

Mahal give him strength.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Current Year: 2772 TA
> 
> Currently Alive Members of Thorin's Company: Thorin, Balin, Dori, Dwalin, Bifur
> 
> Glossary:
> 
> Beriarond – Sindarin: construct of "Protect" + "Large Hall, Cave, Vaulted Roof". Renders as "Caves/Halls of Protection". Named as Khazad-filtînin in Khuzdul, "Dwarves"+"Refuge", or "Refuge of the Dwarves". That's the name I decided our Thorin would push for, in his old/new philosophy of protecting all dwarves he can. As the name suggests, it's a refuge open to all dwarves (provided they swear fealty to the ruling lord, obviously). I suppose it'll eventually become odd as the only "modern" dwarf kingdom where Bandûn are a common feature of the court.
> 
> Azaghâl 'uddel – Khuzdul; "Father of All Fathers, Azaghâl". Azaghâl was both King of Belegost and the only named dwarf of that realm, and he was known for his wounding of Glaurung (Father of Dragons) as he lay dying beneath the Worm. I took some liberty of making him Father of the Broadbeams, who is reborn among their people in the same way as Durin is reborn among the Longbeards, and as every dwarf father is reborn in their people in "my" lore. So given the time frame, he was really Azaghâl the Second I suppose. As for 'uddel - "Father of All Fathers" is kind of a formal-ish title given to the Seven Fathers of the Dwarves. But it can also be given in compliment to any dwarf who is a father, with the implication being that they're so good at fatherhood that they're on the level of being as good as the Seven.


End file.
